


Testament of the Spirit

by DeadshotMusketeer



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-09-17 10:56:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9320501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadshotMusketeer/pseuds/DeadshotMusketeer
Summary: Complete.  Aramis centred with Athos as secondary.  Extreme whump.  Kidnapped and enslaved by a delusional despot bent on ruling France, Aramis and Athos fight to stay alive as Porthos and d'Artagnan mount a rescue.  *Special Note- this story is mine.  It was previously written for other fandoms, and posted on other sites, but it is my story.  I am Raven.  I am Thief81.  I am SpaceCowboy.  *Rating changed to M for violence and torture.





	1. Chapter 1

Testament of the Spirit  
by DeadShotMusketeer

  
I.

Captain Treville hated getting up this early, and projected his displeasure of being woken by the King’s messenger before the sun had risen by stomping down the staircase of the garrison’s courtyard.

“Good,” he said, arriving at the table where four of his musketeers sat waiting for him. “You’re here. Saddle your horses. The King has requested an escort for a lengthy journey, and specifically asked for my best men. Simply by absence of any others, you four will do.”

D’Artagnan stood with a smile. “I feel honoured.”

Porthos rose next. “Where’s he going?”

“A better question,” asked Athos, joining his brothers on their feet, “is why are you not accompanying him?”

“It’s not the King who’s travelling,” answered Treville, “but his physician, Doctor Lemay.”

Aramis flashed a smile at his captain as he pocketed an apple. “I’ll fashion a guess. Is he planning on visiting the villages near Rouen?”

Treville frowned. “How’d you know?”

“Gorge and Callais returned from there a week ago and spoke of rampant illness,” replied Aramis, tossing an apple to Porthos before rising to his feet.

“Yes,” nodded Treville. “So you remember.”

Porthos held up a hand. “Hold on a second here, Captain. We aren’t riding into some sort of plague, are we? I’ve been feeling pretty good lately. I don’t want anything messing with my insides.”

“You’ll be safe,” replied Treville. “Just don’t drink the water.”

Athos’ head canted to the side. “The water?”

“Reports from the region suggest the disease is coming from the water supply,” replied Treville. “Something about decaying livestock festering near the river. Doctor Lemay is to see if he can relieve some of the symptoms, possibly find a cure. The King believes it’s in the best interest of France, particularly Paris, if this ‘problem’ remains sequestered to this small region of the countryside. Many have died already, their bodies disposed of…”

“Yes,” said Aramis. “Callais mentioned something about people… disappearing.”

“The Captain said disposed of, not disappearing,” said d’Artagnan.

Treville sighed, rubbed his forehead. “No, Aramis is correct. It seems paranoia has set in. Anyone suspected of being sick disappears, most likely disposed of. At least, that’s what the villagers believe. Apparently there’s a group of very determined men travelling around and rounding up the sick. My god, it’s like we’ve gone back to the dark ages.”

“And the King wants Musketeers accompanying Lemay,” said Porthos. “Two birds, one stone.”

“Precisely,” said Treville. “Now, it’s a long trip, so I suggest you prepare accordingly. And take a recruit, you’ll need a messenger. Doctor Lemay will travel by wagon, he has supplies he needs to bring, so the journey will take longer than usual.”

Aramis tipped his hat at their superior. “Aye, Captain. When does he plan on leaving?”

“This evening,” replied Treville.

“Doesn’t give us much time,” said d’Artagnan. “Especially if we need to load extra munitions.”

“A threat is highly unlikely,” Aramis informed him. “It’s mainly farmers and villagers out there.”

“Correct,” said Athos. “But remember who we’re talking about. When does trouble ever give us a day off?”

Treville straightened his shoulders. “Take the extra ammunitions from the armoury,” he ordered. “I’m not willing to bet against Athos on this one.”

Aramis raised an eyebrow. “Captain? If we go in there with full armament, won’t it give the wrong impression?”

“Perhaps,” replied Treville. “But better prepared than sorry.”

It took four days for Treville to receive word something had gone wrong.

A warm glass of wine awaited him by his bedside, as did a good night’s sleep, but the messengers’ arrival took precedence. He waited at the top of the stairs for the young recruit, his hand outstretched to receive the note.

Treville read by the candle light of a lantern, then looked sharply at the young recruit. “Do you have anything to add to this?” he asked.

“No sir,” replied the recruit. “Porthos said he didn’t want to leave out any details in the letter.”

“So, he’s in charge now?”

“I’m afraid so,” said the recruit. “Sorry, not that he isn’t capable… I just mean… Well…”

Treville put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, son,” he said. “I know what you meant. Now, did Porthos mention needing any further support from the garrison? Any more men?”

The recruit shook his head. “No, sir. It seems Aramis was right. The villagers took our presence as a show of force, even with the Doctor accompanying us.”

“All right,” replied Treville. “Go get some rest. You’ll leave with Gorges and Callais at first light. I’m not sending you back out alone.”

The recruit left and Treville entered his office.

“Damn it.”

He dropped into the chair behind his desk and grabbed the bottle of wine he kept in a drawer. Negating a glass, he poured the wine down his throat with barely a swallow. Then slammed the bottle back down, closed his eyes and hunched forward.

 _So much for a good night’s rest_ , he thought.

~The Musketeers~

Wreathed by gently rolling fields scattered with yellow headed ragweed, the jarring lines of the town across the wide river stood out like a blemish.  
Porthos snickered before turning away. Two of his brothers left several hours ago to scout the town, yet neither had returned, which made looking at the town all the more frustrating. They weren’t late, but since they’d left, Porthos’ stomach ached in an unsettling way.

Athos had decided only two of them should enter first to explain their motivations before the rampant paranoia they’d witnessed in previous villages could cultivate.

Porthos believed it a good idea at the time.

He shook his head, rubbed his chin and stepped forward. He dipped a naked foot into the warm, clear water of the river and closed his eyes. Fresh air filled his lungs as he breathed deeply, until he remembered Treville’s caution and quickly retracted his foot.

“Don’t drink the water,” said d’Artagnan.

Porthos looked over his shoulder and saw the young Gascon standing on the river’s embankment. “Yeah,” he replied, pulling his boot back on. “Just remembered.”

Porthos trudged over to d’Artagnan. “Where’s Lemay?"

“Relieving himself.”

They stood side-by-side, starring across the water toward the small village. “Well,” said Porthos. “We meet up in a few hours so we should set up camp in the meantime. Plus, I’m starving. Have you got the wine, or did Aramis pack it all?”

D’Artagnan smiled.

Porthos clapped him on the back and led him away from the water. “That’s my boy,” he said.

By evening dusk, camp was set, Lemay settled, but still no contact from either Athos or Aramis. Porthos sent d’Artagnan into the village to find them just as nightfall bathed the countryside in darkness, and hours later the Gascon returned a hurried, dishevelled mess.

“What do you mean they never arrived?” asked Porthos.

D’Artagnan gripped the hilt of his sword, his young features tarnished by worry lines. “Never showed up,” he said. “I … I was the first Musketeer they’d seen in weeks.”

Porthos shook his head. “Oh, this isn’t good.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Porthos ran a hand down his face, pulled on his beard. “Where’s that messenger?” he asked, casting glances over his shoulders. “I need to send word back to the Captain.”

  
to be continued…


	2. Chapter 2

II.

_"I see the world gradually turning into a wilderness. I hear the ever approaching thunder, which will destroy us to. I can feel the suffering of millions and yet, if I look up into the heavens, I think that it will all come right, that this cruelty too will end, and that peace and tranquillity will return again."_

_-_ Anne Frank, _’Diary of a Young Lady'_  


Athos sighed as he retracted his head from its portentous view of the guards around the corner. "They're still there," he reported, unleashing a chorus of moans throughout the dank cavern.

"What did you expect?” asked Aramis. "We're prisoners, not guests here. Of course they’re still there.”

"I'm blatantly aware of that," replied Athos.

Aramis drew in a deep breath and made his way through the crowded underground cavern, sharing sympathetic glances with those he passed. He squeezed around a small group of prisoners in tattered clothes, slumped against an empty spot on a wall and slid to the ground.

"There must be a time when they're vulnerable," Athos said, taking a seat next to the marksman.

"Not likely," replied Aramis, wiping a thick layer of grime from his face. But under that lay another layer just waiting to be cleaned. "But they aren't even armed. Why?"

Athos frowned. "Actually, that is the only thing that makes sense."

Aramis raised his brows.

"It's an old trick of the trade, my friend," sighed Athos. “Starting way back when weapons, and people, were relatively primitive. You don't arm guards working in prison quarters like these, it reduces the risk of them being used against you. Brute force in confined spaces is usually enough to keep prisoners at bay. After being worked to death, going up against an army, even unarmed, seems impossible." Athos studied his surroundings. "And it seems to be working rather well. I don't see any heroic uprisings formulating, do you?"

Aramis frowned. "I'd rather not think about this right now," he replied slowly,

Athos closed his eyes for a brief moment. ”We're going to have to sooner or later. Have you even considered a plan of escape?"

Aramis looked at him but didn't reply. He rubbed his back against the cave wall, smoothing the rough dirt, then drew his legs up. Resting his arms across his knees, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

Athos watched for a moment, then cast his eyes about the room where others were bedding down for the night.

Along with every other misfortunate victim in the underground cavern, he and Aramis were prisoners. Athos didn't know the stories of everyone’s capture, but how he and Aramis were caught kept repeating itself over and over again in his mind. And every time it played back, he searched for where he had gone wrong and how he could have handled it differently.

So when he closed his eyes, he wasn’t surprised that it repeated again in his mind.

He needed a distraction, so with slow calculated movements, Athos reached down to his waist and brushed his fingers over his belt buckle. Like Aramis, his doublet, and all his weapons were gone. Left in only a thin shirt, pants and boots, the belt was the only formidable item on his possession.

He looked down at the dirt encrusted buckle and swept away some of the dried mud to reveal the etching of a Fleur-de-Lis. He remembered losing his old buckle months ago while training with Aramis, but more so, how the marksman caught him off guard with one of his more audacious moves.  

Athos smiled at the memory, at the sheer delight of his friend at getting the best of him. The buckle had meant nothing to Athos, a mere utility used to hold up his pants, but a week later Aramis replaced it with one displaying the raised emblem of the Musketeer symbol, and carved on the back was the date of his commission.

“So you never forget who you are,” murmured Athos, repeating the words Aramis had said that day.  

Athos sighed. If only the marksman knew how much the words meant to him, and still did now.

He turned to his sleeping friend and placed a hand on his shoulder. ”I'll find us a way out of here," he said quietly. "I promise."

_~The Musketeers~_

The prisoners had learned to set their internal clocks to wake them before the guards arrived, for they typically banged on large metal plates, and shouted and kicked to rouse them each morning. On one occasion, a particularly notorious guard used a flaming torch to wake a late riser by setting the man's clothes on fire, all while brandishing a smile.

His body begging for more sleep, Aramis pushed himself to his feet. Nearly every joint in his body cracked, shooting fire through each muscle and leaving behind an aching reminder. Rubbing his back, he slowly made his way to the centre of the room while surveying his dismal surroundings.

It was easy to tell how long a person had been there by the way they carried themselves. The new ones still walked proud and angry, and believing in escape. Aramis could see it in their eyes, the ferocity of a caged animal.

Aramis remembered that feeling.

He and Athos felt it after their capture. But there was no escape, only the hope of a rescue. And Aramis felt he would never give up on that, especially when he looked across the cavern at the one’s who’d been there the longest; the one's who’d been there since it all began. The one's who kept to themselves, spoke little and hoarded everything they got their hands on.

These _lifers,_ as they were called, were easy to find in a crowd. Having given up on pretence and posturing a long time ago, they moved about the day with eyes glazed over and boney shoulders slumped forward.

But it was their eyes that haunted Aramis the most. He didn't want those eyes, hollow, lifeless, no glimmer of hope to be found. And their emptiness was reflected in their physiques as well; emaciated and pale, _lifers_ bore the scars of long-term imprisonment and torture.

Aramis looked himself over, running a hand down his filthy shirt. Someone had tried to steal it his first night. To his defence, the attacker was weak from both hunger and dehydration, but all that remained of the once white shirt was now a murky grey body, the sleeves long ago tossed aside in the defence of heat stroke.

Taking a deep breath, he hurried himself across the cavern and found Athos building a fire. This was the focal point of their new underground home, where everyone gathered to keep warm or talk when their loneliness became too unbearable. It also had a clear view of the cavern's entrance.

The room where they were kept was small with only one entrance, which made escape difficult since it was perpetually guarded by several men with menacing sneers and very large, over-inflated muscles.

"Sleep well?" asked the swordsman.

Aramis nodded with a smirk, rubbing his bare arms with pained effort. "Like an infant."

"Funny, you don't look particularly well."

"Thank you," replied Aramis, bending by the fire to keep warm. Despite the heat outside, the caves were cold and blankets were extremely hard to come by.

Athos sat back on his heels. "No, I mean it, my friend,” he said. "You're looking rather pale."

Aramis rubbed his hands over the heat and shrugged.

"Well, he best be careful," said a voice across the fire.   Aramis and Athos looked up to see a skinny man in ragged clothes and grim expression. "Looks like they took another last night."

The musketeers darted their heads about the room, searching for the missing victim. It was a regular occurrence to wake up and find one of the prisoners’ missing. Usually it was the extremely sick and weak who disappeared in the night. Their captor having no use for them anymore, would have the guards drag them away in their sleep, never to be heard of again. And each morning, Aramis strangely woke up thankful he was still in the cave.

"Who was it?" asked Aramis, turning back to the skinny man whose name slipped his mind.

There were over forty men kept in this particular cavern, and he had yet to learn all their names, which he was beginning to think was a good thing. It made it that much easier when they disappeared. There was no use making a friend that was soon going to leave... or die. Which ever the case may be.

"Dovan," replied the man bitterly. "The one who broke his arm yesterday moving the rocks."

Aramis swallowed hard. He was working with Dovan when he’d broken his arm. And he remembered how Dovan continued to work despite the pain for fear of what might happen. Unfortunately, the guards must have noticed.

"Well, you don't have to worry about me," sighed Aramis, standing up. "I may look like a corpse, but I assure you, I’m fine."

"Whether you are or not," said the man, rising from the fire. "You best keep that attitude up."

"You have yourself a good day too," retorted Aramis, his rebuke unheard by the retreating stranger.

"He's right, you know," conceded Athos, throwing another stick into the building fire. "If you are getting sick, you better not let them know."

"I'm fine,” stated Aramis, slowly backing away. "I'm just tired like everyone else here." He waved his arms, indicating the other prisoners slowly moving about the cave. "We've been here for days, most much longer. No one has seen a decent meal, or a bath, or even a clean drink of water! Of course I look ragged. We all do."

Finished with his speech, Aramis turned his back on Athos and walked away.

"Maybe," replied Athos, under his breath. "Only some of us look worse than others.”

_~The Musketeers~_

The sun was beginning to rise, yet Porthos had not slept. He’d made a promise to himself that he would not rest until his friends were found. One he'd regrettably broken when he’d fallen asleep for a few minutes the previous night. He couldn't help himself. They’d been searching non-stop since their disappearance, and his body couldn't take it any longer. He’d passed out from shear exhaustion while everyone in the search party had stopped for a short break.

Lemay, the physician travelling with them, repeatedly told him to rest, that he would be no good to anyone if too weak to continue, but Porthos had taken no notice of his words, schooling all his strength to keep awake and to keep searching. But now, as he knelt by the river looking across to the village, his body screamed again for relief.

Days had passed since he last saw or heard from Aramis or Athos. Gorges and Callais had arrived from the garrison the previous night, but even with their help, no signs of the missing Musketeers had emerged.

And with Paris several days ride away, Porthos was having the worst day he could possibly imagine. Command wasn’t the issue, but with two of his closest friends missing, it certainly made it more difficult to concentrate on doing the right thing.

Charging across the countryside, barging into villages and towns and demanding answers seemed like the right way to proceed, but Porthos was trying to follow in Treville and Athos’ tutelage, learn from their example, and knew a more diplomatic approach would probably prove more successful.

Porthos' head was spinning.

To hone his focus, he stared at his reflection in the water, rippling and rolling with the gentle waves. It distorted his image, reflecting his discouragement. "Damn you!" you cursed, punching his reflection. "How could you let this happen to them?”

"You can’t possibly be blaming yourself for this?"

Porthos spun to see d’Artagnan standing behind him. "Why not?" he spat, standing abruptly. He brushed past him toward the encampment, not sparing the Gascon a glance as he passed.

"Porthos," called d’Artagnan, catching up to him. "This wasn’t your fault. You do understand that, don't you?"

Porthos kept marching.

D'Artagnan stepped in front of him, cutting off his path. "Porthos," he pressed, but the large musketeer would not look at him. D'Artagnan stepped closer. "This wasn’t your fault. It’s foolish to believe you had anything to do with Aramis and Athos' disappearance. You weren’t even there when it happened."

Familiar with the Gascon’s persistence, Porthos relented. "I should have known something was going to happen." He closed his eyes briefly, letting his tongue sweep across his lips. "And I just keep thinking what if. What if I had gone with them? What if I had tried to contact them earlier? What if..."

"What if," repeated d'Artagnan. "You can’t live in a world of what ifs. You can only live in the present."

"I see someone pays attention to the great philosophers," mused Dr. Lemay, coming up behind d'Artagnan. "Now if only Porthos would listen..."

Porthos shook his head, stared at the ground. “Doctor…”

"Now is not the time," interrupted the physician. "A member of a nearby village just arrived with news."

D'Artagnan and Porthos waited with anticipation as Lemay turned back to the camp, waving them along.

"We may have a lead," Lemay said over his shoulder. "There's a village up ahead that claims several more families have also gone missing recently."

"And they believe they might be with our men?" asked d'Artagnan.

"It's hopeful," replied Lemay. “But that is your area of expertise.”

"Then why are we moving so slow?" demanded Porthos, pushing past the two of them in his hurried need for answers.

_~The Musketeers~_

Athos’ eyes burned in the early morning sun. After such a long time in the dim cave network, a candle's flame seemed intense. But he managed to retain his composure as he helped the other prisoners climb the last leg of the steep incline leading from their interim lodging.

The armed guards above rushed them along with threats and screams as each person greeted the day with fear and anxiety, and Athos didn’t want to see any of them whipped or beaten for being too slow.

"What'll it be today, men?” mused Aramis, bringing up the last of outgoing prisoners. "Tree cutting or rock removal?"

"Don't forget construction," added Athos, giving his friend a hand up. "That is, after all, why we're here."

"And don't you forget it!" threatened a guard, jabbing his weapon behind Athos' knees.

Athos staggered. Knowing any form of physical retaliation would only cause more problems, he threw the guard a beleaguered before following the rest of the prisoners.

He couldn't decide which he liked better, the caves or the compound. Down below they had some privacy and a little refuse from the blazing heat, but above they had fresh air. Each had their own set of pros and cons, so Athos decided in the end they were equal.

Each morning the underground caves emptied, spilling hundreds of prisoners into the compound. Once they were accounted for, they were broken down into work parties, as far as Athos could tell, by ability.

A group of artisans were kept in the cavern adjacent to theirs who worked on the stone carvings and moulds, and were usually kept under extreme lock and guard. Another group, Athos could only assume was located in another cave across the compound, was responsible for the cooking and cleaning for all the guards.

There were more groups, but he had yet to figure them all out. But he was certain of three things. One, aside from Aramis and himself, there was a severe lack of educated persons being held prisoner. If ever one showed up, they usually didn't last very long. Second, there were plenty more groups similar to his and Aramis’, the one reserved for the young and strong- hard labour.

And third, each day he and Aramis were assigned a backbreaking task, either cutting trees, removing rocks or constructing the fortress. All of them Athos hated, but building the fortress he hated most. It meant being in close proximity to the despot himself.

Through rumours, spread quickly amongst the slaves, they learned of Montcalm, the tyrant responsible. He wanted to rule the countryside, and later, all of France apparently. He was building his empire here, wherever here was, Athos had no clue, and was using slaves to do his dirty work. And he had quite a congregation he noted, raising on his toes to look around.

The compound was built into a large canyon medial to two sloping hills, their terrains cliff-faced and jagged. One end of the canyon was cut off by a wide rushing river too dangerous to cross. A thick forest, dense with unfamiliar brush and wild animals, protected the other. And right in the middle of all this was Montcalm’s soon-to-be fortress, from where he planned to live out his delusions of grandeur.

Aramis tapped him on the shoulder, breaking him from his musings. "Let's head for tree cutting."

"Why tree cutting? I still have splinters from the other day."

"I'm not up for heavy lifting," replied Aramis, rubbing his shoulder. "I haven't ached like this since as far back as I can remember."

"Tree cutting it is then," replied Athos, studying his friend. Aramis' eyes were tired, his face drawn, and his usual confident gait was nowhere to be found.

Athos turned his attention to the guards doling out the daily duties, then seeing a group heading toward the forest, he grabbed Aramis. "Come on," he said over his shoulder. "We'll join that group."

The two prisoners bolted from the crowd, heading for the thirty or so others being led to the edge of the compound, but as they were about to join them, a burly guard dressed in black leather and brandishing a sturdy weapon stepped before them. His weapon resembled an old staff used centuries ago, but in this case, the ends were capped with circular metal globes, each spiked several times with serrated barbs similar to what Athos knew to be ‘morning stars’.

"Where do you two think you're going?" the guard snarled, holding the musketeers at bay with his weapon across their chests.

Athos pointed at the group walking ahead of them. "We're with them," he explained.

"Well, get moving!" warned the guard with a shove.

_~The Musketeers~_

Aramis stood back and watched the large tree crash to the ground with a resounding thud.

Athos eyed the axe in his hand, turning it over and casting a glance at the guards surrounding them. "You know," he said, leaning close to Aramis. "It would be easy to take them. Catch them by surprise."

Aramis looked at one of the guards resting against a tree. He looked no more than twelve, and hardly cultivated enough to use the weapon leaning idle at his side. The marksman turned back to Athos. “What about the rest of the prisoners?" he asked.

Athos dropped his head. "I know. That's why I'm not actually considering it," he said. "If we escape, the others will be punished."

"And in case you haven't noticed, the odds are still against us my friend," said Aramis, squatting. "There's forty guards here, albeit young, but still armed with weapons I don't even want to think about. There's only five of us with these flinty axes. Personally, I'm giving odds to the spiky death sticks."

Athos rolled his wrist, spinning the axe in a circle. "They planned the odds this way. They have to give us tools, but they want to make sure we don't get any heroic ideas," he said, heading over to another tree. He pointed his axe up and nodded to his friend.

Aramis took a deep breath and pushed up with obvious pained effort.

“Are you sure you want to go up there again?" asked Athos, placing a hand on his shoulder. "It might be easier chopping rather than clearing the branches."

Aramis shrugged the hand off. "I'm okay," he insisted, then grabbed a low branch and hoisted himself upwards. "If you want to worry, worry about the other prisoners. I'm fine."

Athos watched the marksman carefully climb the tree, taking a deep breath with each new height he took. Athos positioned himself directly under him, moving around the tree as Aramis did. He hated to think it, but Aramis’ limbs trembled as much as the trees’ branches and the possibility of a plunge was highly conceivable.

A loud snap cracked the air above his head and Athos braced to catch his friend. But Aramis caught his balance and continued upward without pause.

If Aramis wasn't going to take care of himself, then Athos was damn sure he would, so he shook his head, clenched his jaw and continued to follow his friend around the tree.

_~The Musketeers~_

Porthos gathered the search party around a bare flagpole in the centre of a small town. No one had news that could direct them in any particular direction, but as fearful as the town’s folk were, many of them joined in and discussed their opinions concerning the countryside’s political underbelly. Some even volunteered to join their group in order to find the stolen families.

"Perhaps you should start your own party?" suggested Porthos, speaking to a town member, a somewhat elderly and crippled man. “That'll allow us to cover more ground. We've come across several other towns such as yours, and some have sent out their own people to search. You and your town's folk should do the same."

The man walked away, taking the town’s folk with him and leaving Porthos alone with d’Artagnan, Gorge, Callais and Doctor Lemay.

“Was it something I said?” asked Porthos, looking to those around him.

“I think they’re afraid,” replied d’Artagnan.

Porthos frowned. “Of what? They came to us asking for help.”

“I think they expect us to do it on our own,” said d’Artagnan. “Look at them. Most wouldn’t get much further than the village gates before passing out from exhaustion.”

Porthos looked at Lemay with a raised eyebrow.

“They’re not sick,” replied the physician. “They’re just old… or really too young to be of much use.”

Porthos drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He’d sent out the other musketeers in their group to search the countryside, opting to keep his group small so they could move faster. But with the physician with them, Porthos found they were very much delayed. Everywhere they went, Lemay wanted to help the sick town’s folk and farmers. The problem was, they hadn’t actually found any sick people yet. But of course, that didn’t stop Lemay from stopping to search for them.

Unable to remain still, Porthos paced the small centre square, going over in his mind the information they gathered. They’d learned that people were going missing by the masses, and that contrary to reports, no one seemed to be ill. So, where were the people going? And who were the men coming through the villages taking people away that Treville mentioned?

Lemay fell into step beside him. "There appears to be quite a few missing in these parts," he said, as they turned back for another crossing.

"I was thinking the same thing," replied Porthos. "And from the looks of things, the young and strong seem to be on the menu. Not the sick and dying.” He paused, stared at Lemay. "And doctors."

Lemay stopped mid-step, eyes wide.

"Out of all the villages we've been through, haven't you noticed a certain lack of education?" noted Porthos. "No disrespect intended, but the villagers we've come across hardly seem capable of running their own house holds, let alone building these villages and towns. We’ve yet to come across a single doctor, merchant or teacher of any kind, male or female. I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure disease isn’t that discriminate. It’s more like _someone_ has taken these people away and everyone left behind is too afraid to speak."

"Well, I hate to agree," sighed Lemay, “but you do bring up an excellent point. Someone has carefully selected his victims. And it seems that intellect and strength is our adversary's adversary."

D’Artagnan joined them as they started their pacing again. ”How many are actually missing from here?” he asked.

"One hundred and sixty-seven," answered Porthos. "Plus the two hundred and fifty-three from the towns we checked yesterday. And of course..."

"Athos and Aramis," sighed Lemay.

D’Artagnan stopped, looked at Porthos. “That’s a total of four hundred and twenty-two…that we’re aware of. There's most likely hundreds more missing from this area. Perhaps even spanning several hundred miles. Which leads me to believe, whoever is doing this must have a really well constructed plan.”

"But, what does this all mean?" asked Lemay.

Porthos turned to the physician, arms crossed over his chest. "I know exactly what this means," he responded sternly. "Cause I agree with d'Artagnan. Somebody out there is doing something on a grand scale, and he needs people. He needs manpower."

“Or,” said d’Artagnan. “Someone needs to get rid of people.”

"Well?" urged Lemay. "Which one is it?"

Porthos spared Lemay a fleeting glance as he walked passed him. "Either there's a really smart plague rampaging through this region," he replied. "Or I reckon someone is building an army.”

_~The Musketeers~_

Before Athos left the food line with his plate, a guard grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him around.

"Hey," growled the guard. "You and your friend better hurry along."

"Love to," replied Athos. "But you happen to be impeding our exit."

The guard snarled. "Walk around me."

Aramis leaned over Athos' shoulder. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut short by a jab in the ribs from Athos.

"What was he gonna say?" asked the guard, poking Athos in the shoulder with the tip of his staff. "I'm curious."

"Nothing," droned Athos, sharing a level glance with his friend. "He has an odd condition commonly known as _Foot in Mouth Disease_. He has a tendency to open his mouth when he shouldn't."

Harrumphing, the guard let them move away from the line without further discussion.

Athos and Aramis found a semi-secluded spot near the rest of the eating prisoners where they sat down to eat their daily meal.

"I'm about ready to tell these backward heathens who we really are," stated Aramis. "Maybe knowing there’s an entire garrison with a weapons compliment powerful enough to blow 'em to bits might make them re-think their plans for us?"

"Oh," answered Athos. "I'm sure they have very nice accommodations for musketeers here. Aramis, they’re delusional in their safety, so telling them a forcible army may be on the way might put the fear of death into them. And unfortunately, that death would probably consist of ours.” Athos glanced around at the other prisoners. “And theirs.”

Aramis drew in a deep breath, wincing as he nodded. Then he looked at his plate, shook his head and tossed it to the ground.

Athos moved so they were shoulder to shoulder. "Aramis," he whispered. "You have to eat. You have to keep your strength up, even if this does taste like..."

"Ungrateful slave!" boomed a voice above them.

Athos and Aramis looked up to where the guard from the food line stood over them, snarling at the discarded food.

"You take what we give you and you eat it!" he ordered, spitting on the discarded food. Then he turned with a gruff laugh and marched away to join the other guards.

Aramis stared at the food, then glanced at Athos "You want to trade, mine's got sauce?"

Athos broke off a piece of his dry bread, cracking it on the edge of his plate like an egg. "Here, have some of mine. I think he's gone now."

Aramis pushed it away, clutching his stomach. "I can't," he said, closing his eyes. "It'll only resurface later."

Athos didn't think it was possible, but his friend actually looked worse than he had that morning.

Under their living conditions this past while it was no wonder he was sick. They were given food, if it could be called that, once a day and in child sized portions. What little water they were granted was usually brown, tepid, and stinking of musty wood. And the living conditions were no better; forty men crammed into a small underground cave where they were forced to breathe in each other's sweat.

But escape seemed like a myth, the guards out armed and out numbered them at least twenty to one. And even if Athos or Aramis could plan an escape, most of the prisoners were too weak or frightened to fight. They would be slaughtered in minutes. And to leave them behind was simply inconceivable.

The only thing they could hope for was a rescue, or a miracle.

Athos was betting on the first. And he thanked god he had friends worthy of the task. It also didn't hurt they were Musketeers. That thought reassured him greatly, for if and when they got out of there, he knew what his first action would be when he got hold of his sword again. And no mighty fortress or autocratic dictator was going to live to regret that day.

When eating time came to a conclusion, the guards rounded up the slaves while the prisoners assigned to clean-up duties gathered all the plates and mess left behind. If Montcalm was anything, he was obsessively neat. Athos regarded this as just another element that validated his insanity. That and the fact Montcalm had yet to show his face amongst the prisoners.

"It makes me sick," Aramis said, as they headed toward the forest with their work party. "Montcalm has hundreds of slaves, maybe more, working and dying under his rule and he doesn't give a damn about any one of them."

"I can't believe he has followers," replied Athos, nodding at a group of guards. "How can anyone advocate this Montcalm? He's bent on domination. I want to grab this despot and smack him into reality."

“Yes, right. Then you can make all woman adore me and take your place as King of France," mused Aramis. "Face it, Montcalm is so far gone there's no hope."

"I swear there's a village out there missing their idiot," sighed Athos.

"Hey! You two!" bellowed a voice behind them. They spun to see a group of approaching guards. "You're coming with me!" ordered one of them. "You're needed elsewhere!"

Athos struggled as a guard grabbed him around his neck, dragging him away from the other tree cutters. “Hey!"

The guard pulled him harder and ordered the capture of Aramis as well. "Montcalm feels you two would serve him better in construction," he rumbled. "Think of it as a step up in life."

"I don't care what you think!" cried Aramis, as he was shoved passed Athos. He turned back to the guards, face contorted with anger and frustration. "Call it what you like, but it's still slave labour! And Montcalm is a maniac! He's sick if he thinks he's going to get away with this!"

Athos wrapped an arm around the marksman. ”Aramis," he said. "Don't make it worse."

"No!" shouted Aramis. "I'm tired of this! I'm not holding my tongue any longer!"

Aramis struggled to escape, but Athos had a good hold of him, so he yelled at the guards over his shoulder.

"You can't treat people this way!" Aramis continued. "Haven't you ever heard of peace, love and respect thy neighbour? Montcalm doesn't even have the courage to show his face! He sits in his tent all day surrounded by guards, too afraid to face the despair he's created around him!"

"Aramis," pushed Athos, slowly losing his grip on his angered friend. "Let it go."

"I'd like to hear this," smiled one of the guards, crossing his arms over his chest. "Let the slave continue. Please.”

Aramis broke free from Athos and stepped up to the guard. "Montcalm is a coward. He doesn't even have the common decency to face his slaves. What? Can't he stomach what he's doing? He's a despot who's going to one day meet his match. And believe me, I'll definitely be there to see that bastard's demise!"

Athos swallowed hard as he listened to Aramis' final words, wishing his friend wasn't so hotheaded at times like these. But part of Athos would have loved to let out a little steam. Unfortunately, Athos also knew it would only bring them further troubles, something of which they didn't particularly need at the moment.

The guard laughed, grabbed Aramis by the neck and yanked his head back. With eyes reduced to slits, he leaned over the slave's face. "Harsh words for someone in your position," he snarled. "Fortunately you are nothing, so your words mean nothing to someone like Montcalm. You should be honoured to be building his empire. You should bow down each day and pray he's as good to you as he is."

When the guard finished, he released Aramis, and ordered one of his henchmen to seize him. Then he turned to Athos, ordering his capture as well. "Now I suggest you both be good little boys and do as your told," he said, as they were carted off towards the construction area. "You may regret it otherwise.”

_to be continued…_


	3. Chapter 3

 

III.

 _"Don't serve your country, don't serve your king._  
_Know your customs, but don't speak your tongue._  
_White man came took everyone."_

 _-_ Midnight Oil, _’The Dead Heart'_  


Athos’ skin burned. After hours under the callous sun, spontaneously igniting was starting to sound like a good idea- and highly plausible. It would bring an end to his misery, and that's all he cared about at this moment. That, and Aramis who was quickly degenerating in this heat.

There wasn't anything Athos could do but keep a watchful eye on his friend, and when Aramis stumbled while lifting a large concrete slab into place, Athos’ stomach lurched.

He scanned the area. It appeared none of the guards noticed. And when Aramis finally got the slab into place, Athos saw him bend over and brace his hands on his knees. "Aramis," he said in a restrained voice.

Aramis looked back and nodded. Then he rose, drawing in a deep breath. Athos didn't have to say anything further.

But the contents of Aramis' stomach didn't care if anyone was watching. They were coming out regardless of place or time.

Athos tensed as Aramis stumbled behind a rock, using it to support himself as he bent down. Athos caught the tail end of Aramis' regurgitation and coughed purposefully, masking the unmistakable sounds coming from his friend. Athos peered over the rock covering Aramis and watched as he spat out the last of the bile remaining in his mouth.

“Are you all right?" he asked.

Aramis wiped his mouth, kicked dirt over the mess at his feet. "What do you think?" he said. "Let's get back to work before anyone notices."

"Just try and take it easy."

Aramis smiled weakly. "Tell Montcalm that," he replied, heading for a slab of concrete.

"I'd like to share a few things with Montcalm," replied Athos. About to run down a list of complaints, a commotion near one of the compound's perimeters turned both their heads.

Several guards were ushering in a new group of prisoners. The new group of men were bound at their ankles by chains and their mouths gagged as they were led into the compound. Athos looked at his feet, shook his head. There had to be at least fifty men in the new group, each unaware of what was to come.

He forced his breath out in a puff. _There has to be something I can do?_ _I can't let this continue, I'm a bloody musketeer!_

He looked around the compound, scoping the area for weaknesses. Treville had once taught him, _'You will know your enemies weaknesses when you find them and take advantage of them.'_ The only fault in that logic was that Athos couldn't find any weaknesses in Montcalm’s alliance.

Athos had to admit, as insane as Montcalm appeared to be, he knew what he was doing.

_~The Musketeers~_

With night came the evacuation of the compound. Per Montcalm’s protocols, slaves were herded back underground to the intricate cave network. It was difficult to keep a watchful eye on the prisoners in the dark, they were harder to keep track of, making escape more possible.

This also allowed Montcalm’s guards and retinue minor reprieve from a hard days work. A tyrant to his slaves he was, but to his men he was a benevolent leader- treating them to drink and stories as they relaxed amongst the grandiose tent city erected next to the budding fortress. Montcalm understood the concept that a well-treated apostle would be a loyal apostle. So each night he walked amongst them, ate with them, shared in their camaraderie and drank in their praise and worship like a gluttonous pig.

But below ground was a different story.

The guards on duty for the evening were beginning roll call. Taking each cavern scattered underneath the compound in groups, they rounded up the slaves in orderly lines. Here they were able to inspect the physical condition of each slave, and make sure no one had gone missing during the day.

Athos pushed the last slave into line as he heard the approaching guards. Then he quickly took his place amongst them, standing next to Aramis on the end. "Are you going to be all right?" he asked, turning to his friend.

Aramis blinked, breaking his glazed stare into nothingness. "I haven't been sick in a while," he responded.

"That's what I'm afraid of," replied Athos. "You're about due."

Aramis swallowed, and tasting bile he figured he should change the topic. "I haven't seen any of the new comers, have you?" he asked quietly. "I heard most of them were students."

"I heard at least two made it through," replied Athos. "But I don't know if that's for the better. I guess it's a good thing we have strength on our side, or we might have been tortured and killed like the rest of the intellects in our group."

"If I remember correctly," started Aramis, with a frown. "We weren't the most intelligent victims in our group. It couldn't have been too difficult for the guards to determine which group we belonged too."

Athos held back a laugh. "Ah yes," he said. "You answered the guard's questions with such wisdom and persuasiveness- a blank stare, if I recall correctly.”

Aramis made a face but didn't have a chance to reply. The guards entered the cavern expecting complete silence and co-operation.

Grumbling and cursing, the guards picked over the slaves and checked their lists for the correct count. They paused at a few, but only long enough to shout unanswered questions concerning any form of treason against Montcalm.

By the end of the ordeal, it appeared the count was right and no one had any conspiratorial information to share, so the guards started toward the exit. Except one who remained behind, holding his chin in hand while scrutinizing the line of slaves.

The guard stepped toward Aramis, and Athos snapped his head around to face his friend. The marksman was starring back at him, eyes large and apprehensive.

 _Damn,_ thought Athos, thinning his lips. _They've noticed_.

"I see we've learned to co-operate now," chided the guard, his eyes roving over Aramis’ body. This caught the attention of the other guards and they came to stand behind their leader- adding more anxiety to an already tense situation.

Aramis furrowed his brow.

"You don't remember me?" asked the guard, placing his nose inches from the musketeer.

Aramis pulled his head back.

The guard laughed and leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. "Oh, but you must," he replied boisterously. "We had such a lovely little chat this afternoon in the compound."

Aramis swallowed, and then recognition filled his face. “Ah, yes, well, you're all so ugly it's hard to tell you apart.”

The guard balled his hands into fists. In one smooth motion, he lashed out with his right and hit Athos in the nose. The swordsman staggered from the blow, landing sprawled on the ground behind the line.

Aramis charged the guard.

But two others who locked his arms behind his back grabbed him. Aramis struggled, but to no avail. The guard’s grips were strong, not giving him much leeway. Then one of them wrapped a hand around his head, covering his mouth. Aramis was silenced and restrained, and unable to break free.

Athos slowly picked himself off the ground. Every part of him wanted to rush the guards, but that little display made him reconsider. They weren't going to play fair, so he took a deep breath and tried to contain himself.

But there was only so much self-restraint a man could have. "Bastard," he mumbled under his breath.

The head guard squared his jaw, defining the muscles in his chin. "Did I say you could speak?" he hissed between yellow teeth.

"You can't...!" began Athos.

"Again you speak!" shouted the guard, keeping his eyes trained on Athos as he pointed to another prisoner down the line. "Kill him," he ordered evenly.

Two guards rushed the unsuspecting prisoner. Athos dove forward to stop them before they had a chance to carry out the order, but was quickly restrained by the head guard.

"You can't do this!" screamed Athos, before being silenced by a hand clamped over his mouth.

"You speak again," snarled the head guard, twisting Athos' arm up his back. "You will learn.” He nodded his head at another prisoner. "Kill him too.”

Two guards, each grabbing a prisoner from behind, wrapped an arm around their victim's shoulder and the other in the opposite direction around their head and grabbed their chins. In one quick move the guards snapped the necks.

_Crack._

_Crack._

The victims didn't have a chance to scream. The guards had done it with practiced accuracy, like they had done it many times before.

Athos closed his eyes as the two dead bodies slumped to the ground in a heap at the guard's feet. Blood drained from Athos’ head, his body shook. He’d seen people killed before, it was an unfortunate part of the job as a musketeer, but this was different.

These victims had not been killed in war, or in self-defence, but because of him. Because he couldn't keep his damn mouth shut.

The world around him seemed to blend and swirl together. He leaned his weight back on the guard holding him. He wanted to fall to the ground and melt into the earth. Hide forever.

He hit the ground hard when the guard released him. On his knees, Athos buried his head in his hands, unable to look at anyone.

"Now that you know how things work around here," started the head guard, walking back to the cavern's entrance. "We shouldn't have anymore problems."

Athos didn't respond. He kept his face and guilt hidden.

"Grab those bodies," ordered the guard. "We need to make room in here for two more slaves... Live ones would be nice, don't you think?" he chided, receiving a chorus of laughs from the other guards.

But Athos didn't hear him. His mind screamed too loud to hear any outside noise. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He could only remain on his knees, face buried and frozen in that moment. In that exact moment he heard the necks snap, one after the other.

_Crack._

_Crack._

And Aramis threw up.

He bent over bracing his hands on his knees and drained what little there was in his stomach. Then he went to his friend.

Kneeling beside Athos, he draped an arm over his back and said nothing. For nothing could be said. Nothing could be done. And the two of them remained that way for some time while the rest of the cavern's residents walked away in silence.

The two Musketeers had just become the most hated, and most feared, prisoners in the cave.

_~The Musketeers~_

Night could be such an oddity. It could be your best friend, displaying magnificent stars and bringing with it peaceful dreams. Or it could be your worst enemy, creating a blackened earth and too much time to think. Looking to the stars usually eased the pain inside Porthos, but on this night they only taunted him. Sparkling high above in the heavens, they reflected a sense that everything was all right with the universe. They were too beautiful to reflect anything else. But Porthos couldn't find it in himself to share in their optimism. Instead, he felt more in tune with the dark matter between them- the empty, black spaces that seemed to go on forever.

He threw another pebble into the fire, watching as tiny orange and white sparks flickered and faded. Several search parties had congregated for the evening- to share information. Porthos had tried to persuade everyone to keep searching through the night, but most had been too tired.

Some had been on his side, wanting to push ahead with the search, but reason had a way of changing one's mind. And reason was usually a wise physician urging everyone to get some sleep.

Porthos had lost his battle with Lemay, and was stubbornly beginning to think he should leave the rest behind and set out after his friends alone.

“Want some company?" came a soft voice across the fire.

Porthos squinted through the smoke till he recognized d’Artagnan. "Sure. Why not," he replied, making room on his log.

D'Artagnan walked around the fire carrying a blanket, and took a seat next to Porthos. He wrapped the blanket over his shoulders. "Dr. Lemay thought you might be cold," he said, with a raised eyebrow.

"Thanks," mumbled Porthos, pulling the blanket tighter around his body.

D'Artagnan stretched his legs out in front of him, letting his feet feel the heat from the fire. “Based on the look on your face," he said. “I can probably guess what you’re thinking right now.”

“Is that so?"

D’Artagnan smirked. “You’re considering setting out on your own, aren’t you?”

Porthos didn't respond.

"But don’t worry," continued d'Artagnan. "Because I'm not going to allow you to make such a foolish mistake."

Porthos looked at him. "What makes you think you could?" he asked. "If that _was_ what I was thinking, there's no way you could stop me."

D'Artagnan cocked an eyebrow. "It is possible to stop the mighty Porthos," he replied. "I know a few things..."

"And what would they be, d'Artagnan?"

"I know you," he replied, receiving a confused look. "And I know that you would do anything you could to find Aramis and Athos. So when I tell you the best thing you can do for them is get some sleep, I know you will listen to me."

Porthos shook his head, furrowed his brow. "How can sleeping help them?" he questioned. "We're just wasting time..."

D'Artagnan cut him off before his voice grew loud enough to wake the others. "What happens to you when you don’t get enough sleep?" he asked. "Your sluggish and clumsy. Not to mention irritable and irrational."

"What's your point?"

"My point," stated d’Artagnan, drawing in his legs, "is that if you don’t get some sleep, give yourself time to rest, you might miss something when we’re out searching. You might miss that track in the ground. You might not hear that whisper in the crowd, or catch that smell floating on a breeze. And these are the things we need to take notice of if we're going to find our brothers."

Porthos pushed his breath out and closed his eyes. "You're right," he replied. "But just promise me one thing?"

"What?"

"Don't ever go anywhere without me?"

D'Artagnan drew his head back. “That's an impossible request," he replied.

"I know," sighed Porthos, slumping his shoulders. "But I'm feeling cynical, humour me."

D'Artagnan stood up. "You can’t protect everyone at all times, Porthos."

"Maybe not," he replied, turning to face him. "But at least I can try and protect the ones I love.”

 

_to be continued…_


	4. Chapter 4

 

IV.

_"There's thunder all around me, and there's poison in the air._  
_There's a lousy smell that smacks of hell, and dust all in me hair._  
_And it's go boys go, they'll time your every breath._  
_And everyday you're in this place, you're two days nearer death._  
_But you go..."_

_-_ Great Big Sea, _’Chemical Workers Song'_

_A creeping chill worked its way up from Athos’ gut to his throat._

_They had stopped to help two farmers with a broken cart, which seemed harmless at first. But when the two strangers shared sideways glances with each other, Athos’ neck hairs started to prickle. He turned to warn Aramis something was amiss when…_

_A crushing pain exploded at the base of his neck._

Athos's eyes flew open, his internal clock waking him before the morning guards arrived. It had been the same dream he'd had since their capture; starting in the same place, and ending with the same crushing blow. He was tired of seeing their capture play over and over again in his mind, but was thankful it wasn't last nights incident he had dreamt about.

Drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he reached for his belt buckle. It was an unconscious move, and one he never gave much thought to. He merely did it when he felt despondent.

The buckle was his talisman, a gift from Aramis. And now Athos' amulet of optimism and strength.

Thinking of Aramis, Athos turned over. He squeezed his eyes shut, thankful his friend was still there. He gave him a nudge, but Aramis didn't respond. Athos sat up and rolled Aramis onto his back, careful to support his head. Aramis felt limp, damp and considerably light in his arms.

A few weeks ago Aramis had been a sturdy man, a competitor to reckon with. But now he was thin and weak. Athos looked himself over, noting he faired no better himself. But at least he wasn't sick.

Some of the other prisoners were also rising, but making it obviously clear they wanted nothing to do with them. No one would make eye contact with Athos, let alone help.

"Come on, Aramis," Athos pleaded, feeling his friends’ forehead with the palm of his hand. "How can you have a fever...? It's freezing in here." He looked over his shoulder. "Someone get that fire started!" he ordered, to no one in particular.

"Quiet!" replied a voice in the crowd. "You don't give orders 'round here!"

Athos squinted in the dim light trying to put a face with the voice. A young wiry man stepped forward, barefoot, his face dirt smeared and scowling as he bent beside Aramis.

"And since he won't be needing these no more," the prisoner said, untying the marksman’s boots as others gathered around him.

Athos shoved the perpetrator away, using the thief to knock the others back. "Touch him, and you'll have to deal with me!" he threatened, re-lacing his friend's boots. Athos then stood to confront them head on. But they were retreating. Turning their backs once again on the ones in need.

"Damn it, Aramis," Athos sighed, turning back to his friend. "Just wake up. That's an order." He saw his friend open his eyes. Aramis raised his arm, indicating a need for help up.

Athos grabbed the hand and hoisted the marksman to his feet. He pulled him close, their foreheads almost touching, and he could feel the heat emanating from his friend's body. "You have to do this, Aramis," Athos said quietly. "Don't leave me now. I can't handle all these thugs on my own."

Aramis pulled his head back to look over Athos' shoulder. "They look like quite the mob to reckon with," he said.

"We shouldn't joke," replied Athos, following Aramis' gaze. "I can't blame them for hating me."

Aramis placed a hand on Athos' shoulder. "It's over. Let it go. You couldn't know what was going to happen last night."

"Perhaps. But..."

"But nothing, my friend. It's not your fault. Blame it all on Montcalm. Without him, none of this would be happening. Just let it go."

"On one condition, " responded Athos with a smile. "I'll try and stop blaming myself, and you make it through the day without being sick?"

Aramis winked. "That would be up to my stomach.”

_~The Musketeers~_

At the edge of yet another town, Porthos readied his group to enter. As they headed down the trail, a heavily cloaked figure flew past them on a horse, kicking up a dust cloud behind him.

Lemay covered his mouth, coughing. "Like they couldn't see us here,” he choked, waving his hand to disperse the lingering dust.

"Maybe he has an agenda?" questioned d’Artagnan. "Like news?"

"We don't know if anyone from this town is missing," pointed out Porthos. Then he walked ahead, taking the lead as the group entered the town.

Woman dropped their bags, elderly men stowed their tools and children stopped playing their games. All eyes reverted to the large entourage bearing stern faces and invading their town. It had been just over a month since their invasion, and for all they knew these determined strangers were amongst the culprits.

The town's magistrate and numerous families- including newborn children, had disappeared one night, never to be seen again. Aside from the empty beds and derelict stores and establishments that did not open the next morning, there had been few clues left behind.

Finally one of the women stepped forward, singling out the front man of the gang as the leader. She approached tentatively, her hands shaking. "Hello," she said.

Porthos smiled warmly. "Hello," he began. "It's a very nice town you have here. And rest assured, we mean you know harm." He paused, looking at the faces staring and watching him closely. "I believe we may actually be of some service.”

_~The Musketeers~_

The morning passed without incident for the slaves, but a certain tension hung in the air. The guards seemed a little more on edge, a little more alert and attentive to their duties. Not that they were ever dismissive about their jobs, but today they stood a little closer to the workers, brandished their weapons a tad more ferociously and shouted more threats than normal.

There was also a large placard hanging on one of the fortress walls. It was a list of regulations.

_You must answer all questions without hesitation._  
_You are strictly prohibited to dispute me._  
_You are a slave of the new revolution and are refused any rights under it._  
_If you know anything about a revolution against me, speak now and punishment will be less severe._  
_During lesson time or interrogation, you must not cry out._  
_Do nothing until my orders are given. And you must comply without protest._  
_Any disobedience will result in punishment._

And finally, which Athos raised an eyebrow at...

_If you can read this, you will most likely be killed tomorrow._

Athos sensed their situation becoming gravely worse.

He wanted to stay as close to his friend as possible, but Aramis was assigned a different duty that morning. Aramis hadn't been sick yet, but there was also another matter that concerned Athos. His friend could be just as pig headed as him, and Athos didn't want there to be any more trouble. Especially after last night's demonstration.

Athos patted his chest, discharging puffs of white smoke into the air. The dust particles settled on his clothes and stuck to his sweaty skin. He was filthy, and covered head to toe in dry powder from the concrete slabs. He coughed then bent down to catch his breath.

Rope.

The rope he was using to tow larger slabs was lying at his feet. Confident no one was watching, he seized the rope and tucked it into his shirt. He made sure it was completely hidden, adjusting his belts accordingly and stood up. Spotting Aramis working on top of the fortress wall, Athos headed over.

_~M~_

Aramis had learned it was easier if he just didn't think about it; ignore his queasy stomach, the heavy work and the sweltering heat. Just concentrate on spreading the mortar.

Scoop. Plop. Spread. Scoop. Plop. Spread.

He repeated the actions over and over again. He was deep into his routine and didn't notice Athos approaching. And when his friend called his name, Aramis jumped, dropping his spade over the edge of the wall inside the fortress.

Aramis hunched his shoulders, watching the tool miss a guard's head by inches. Then he turned to Athos. "Thank you. Now why don't you just kill me before that guard comes up here and does it himself."

Athos made a face and peered over the wall's edge. "Sorry," he replied sheepishly. "So, how are you doing?" he asked.

Aramis rested his elbows on the wall, careful not to lean too far. "I'm ready to get out of here," he replied, hanging his head. "You read that sign. We can't stay here. This is too dangerous even for my blood. We've been here for... for... I can't even remember how long we've been here. And I can't believe we haven't done anything. There has to be a way out of here."

Athos joined him on the wall. "We've gone over this," he said. "You saw what happens when one person acts up. Can you imagine what would happen if two of us escaped? It would be a massacre. And I couldn't live with myself."

Aramis slammed his fist on the wall, pushed himself back and started pacing. "What if we all worked together?"

Athos stepped to the other side of the wall overlooking the compound. "Yes," he mused, watching the prisoners skulking about their work. "An army any general would be proud to take into battle." He turned back to Aramis, crossing his arms over his chest. "Most of them couldn't fight even if they were given the chance. I'd bet more than half of them have already given up hope of getting out of here."

Stopping mid pace, Aramis clenched his fists. "What if we snuck out at daybreak and returned before evening count? The guards wouldn't know we were gone."

"And do what?"

"I don't know! Find someone! Tell someone what's going on here and to get help!"

"I think it's better if we wait," replied Athos.

"Wait for what?"

"The regiment," stated Athos. "I know they're still out there looking for us. And you of all people know it too."

Aramis swallowed and closed his eyes. A wave of dizziness swept over him and he wavered. Grabbing for the wall, he missed and slumped to the ground.

Dazed, Aramis shook his head. But his head felt heavy, it lolled to the side. And the contents of his stomach began to reel. He clutched his abdomen, tucking into the foetal position.

Athos grabbed him by the shoulders and roughly hoisted him to his feet. Aramis tried to stand on wobbly legs, but it was a tiring job and he started to collapse again.

Athos grabbed him harder, shaking him. "Hey," he whispered. "The guards are coming. Don't let this happen now. Get a hold of yourself."

Aramis snapped his eyes open. His vision was blurry, but he could see three approaching figures coming across the wall. He couldn't let them see him falter or he wouldn't live to see the next sunrise. By the time the guards were in front of him he had regained his composure. Or at least, a reasonable facsimile.

"Down into the compound!" ordered one of the guards as they walked past. "And get a move on!"

Aramis watched over his shoulder as the guards continued down the wall, repeating the order to the rest of the slaves. He turned to Athos just as he slumped back against the wall.

Athos grabbed him by the belt and pulled him upright. "Just make it to the compound," he said, pulling him along. "We can get lost in the crowd and then you can collapse all you want. Just stay with me till then.”

_~The Musketeers~_

As if it weren't hot enough, being squished amongst several hundred sweaty slaves was down right unbearable. Aramis, using the crowd as camouflage, squatted beside Athos. Here, there was a little shade. It wasn't much, but it was something.

"What's going on?" asked Aramis.

Athos raised on his toes, his head poking above the throng of other heads in the crowd. "It's hard to tell," he replied, straining his neck. "There's a group of guards milling about by the wall, and... and..." his voice trailed off, unable to escape his lips. His heart slammed in his chest.

Running a hand through greasy hair, Athos lowered himself. When the guards had parted, he had recognized the equipment set up against the fortress wall. He figured most of the other prisoners did as well, but Athos knew more. He knew that inconspicuous piece of junk had more than one purpose. "It looks like lesson time again," he said. "It's a wheel."

At the words, Aramis sprang up a little too quickly and staggered. He steadied himself using Athos' shoulder, and hoisted his head above the crowd. But blinding pain seared through his head, forcing him back. He grabbed his head, doubling over and grimacing at the pain. He squeezed his eyes tight, mumbling what few words he could manage to articulate.

"Make it stop..."

Frightened of being seen with the sick slave, the crowd scuttled back. Athos stepped over his friend and wrapped his arms under Aramis' shoulders. He hoisted him up, dragging him back into the crowd. He had to keep his friend hidden. He had to make sure the guards didn't see how sick he was. He had to ignore his friend's plea, which was difficult since the marksman was still writhing in pain and clutching his head.

Finding a new spot amongst the crowd, Athos deposited Aramis on the ground, laying him on his back at everyone's feet.

Aramis rolled over, curling into the foetal position. "Just get away from me," he said. "You can't do anything... I'll just be your burden." Then he covered his head with his arms.

Athos dropped to his knees, grabbed Aramis by his shirt. "Don't you ever say that," he stated, clenching his jaw. "I'm not leaving you."

Aramis shook his head. "Go... Please..."

Athos found his friend's hand and wrapped it in his. "I can't tell you I'm not scared," he said, leaning over Aramis. "But we have to do this. Together. Where's that stubborn Aramis we all know and love? I know he's in there."

Aramis laughed, but the effort hurt his head. He knew if he looked hard enough, he could find a little fight left in him. And when he found it, the pounding in his head didn't feel quite so bad. He forced himself to get up, but what energy he did find wasn't quite enough to get him to his feet. He contented himself, and Athos, to remaining on his knees.

Athos patted his friend on the head playfully. "There, that's a good little soldier."

Aramis didn't look up, he merely raised a single finger, communicating a very distinct message.

Athos ignored it and turned his attention to the commotion at the base of the fortress. Amongst the guards now stood a figure draped in a long, thick black coat, a tall hat tilted askew on his head and a cane hanging from the crook of his arm. Athos squinted as the sun's rays bounced off the shiny tip of the cane, reflecting back over the crowd.

T _hat must be Montcalm,_ Athos thought.

A hush fell over the compound as the man in black stepped onto a concrete slab, holding his head high as he looked over his subjects. The man's arrogance made Athos want to wretch. But he watched and listened, for this was the first time Montcalm had shown his face.

The man stood on his makeshift podium smiling out at the crowd for several moments before addressing them. "You are my slaves!" he bellowed, holding the last word for several beats. "You are nothing! And you come from nothing!"

"Don't tell me," said Aramis from his knees. "Montcalm?"

Athos nodded and turned back to the despot and his speech.

"But through me you will become legend!" continued Montcalm, raising his arms in a 'V' over his head. "I will reshape this country in a way never seen before. I will reduce it to nothing, and start a new beginning. And through your hard work, sacrifice and dedication you will build my empire!"

“Dedication…” mumbled Athos.

"And I give you this privilege... I allow you to be part of something greater than this country has ever seen before, and how do you repay me?" shouted Montcalm, his face contorting in anger and resentment. "With insolence and impertinence! You show me no respect and act against my guards! You will give me my due admiration! You will praise me as your new sovereign!"

The guards surrounding the crowd rushed forth, knocking the prisoners to their knees with the ends of their weapons. "Bow before your leader!" they screamed, making their way through the mob. "Kneel!"

"Where does he get off calling himself a sovereign?" rebuked Aramis.

"Must be Spanish," mused Athos, whipping around to keep a watchful eye on the approaching guards.

"You'll show your respect!" boomed the guards’ voices, rising high above the murmurs of the frightened crowd. "On your knees!"

Seeing several guards a few paces to his left, Athos dropped to his knees. "I never thought I'd bow down to anyone other than the King," he cursed with venom.

Aramis shrugged. "Well, seeing how I'm already down here..."

Athos shot him a dry look before bowing his own head. A moment later a pair of dusty black boots appeared below his face. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to look up, but his curiosity got the better of him. Raising his head slowly, his eyes traced the boots up to the legs, and then higher to the guard's face.

"So, it is you," said the guard, smiling down at him. "Oh, this shall be exquisite," he laughed, reaching his muscular arms for both Athos and Aramis.

_~The Musketeers~_

"Your town is not alone," explained Porthos to the gathering towns’ folk. "Young men and families have gone missing all across the countryside. Sons, fathers, sisters, merchants and anyone who dared an education... Even two of my own...friends."

"It's God!" shouted an old woman.

"No," replied d’Artagnan, pushing his way toward Porthos. He turned to the mob, pausing briefly as he confronted the fear and sadness etched on all their faces. "No, this was not an act of God."

"How do you know?" the woman spat back. “He is punishing us for challenging his power! We've grown too strong, and he wants us to repent!"

"I just know," d’Artagnan stated, arching an eyebrow. Unfamiliar with the extent of this village’s religious beliefs, he hoped they would buy his claims if he put enough conviction behind them. "This isn't what God is about."

"And what is He about, then?”

"I do not know exactly," replied d’Artagnan. "We all know God works in mysterious ways. But do you truly believe we have committed such atrocities that God would punish us? Does he not nourish development, not condemn it?”

"He's right," Porthos said. "This wasn't the work of God. This is the work of a fellow countryman, and we must stop it before it's too late. We have other town folk such as yourselves all out looking for our missing people."

"And we will not stop until we find them," added d’Artagnan.

Porthos nodded. "And you should do the same," he suggested to the crowd. "Join the search, and return your people to their rightful places."

"It's not that easy," stated a young woman, breaking from the crowd. She looked back at the members of her town. "Most of us are too old, too weak to stray far from our homes... And some of us have small children to care for. With our learned leaders and patrons missing, we have so few to manage the town. Most of us fear our own captures, and punishment for defiance. We can't just go rushing off to search."

She paused as a young boy ran up to her, wrapping his tiny arms around her legs. She brushed the hair off his face as he stared up at her. "As much as we'd like to preserve our futures."

Porthos stepped forward, placing a hand on the young boy's head. Looking at the woman, he said, "we'll do everything we can to find them, and bring them back.”

_~The Musketeers~_

Athos and Aramis were dropped at Montcalm's feet, erecting a dust cloud as their bodies hit the dirt. Montcalm laughed, throwing his head back. But as he bent down over them, his eyebrows knotted together.

"Unacceptable!" he howled, bounding to his feet. He stuck his right foot out, displaying his boot to the guards. "Are you waiting for an invitation, or am I supposed to do this myself?" he scoffed haughtily, hiking up his long coat as he turned his foot over to display the damage.

"Sorry, sir," croaked one of the flustered guards. Then he grabbed one of the slave servants and threw him too the ground. The slave pulled out a rag from his leather pouch and began polishing the boot. "It will not happen again," apologized the guard, bowing his head.

"See that it doesn't," replied Montcalm, pulling his foot back. Then he turned to Aramis and Athos, now on their feet. He looked them over, fingering their dirty clothes with a sigh.

Aramis drew his head back when Montcalm reached for his face. A guard, hand laced through the marksman's hair, yanked his head back. "This is the one from yesterday," informed the guard. "The one with the big mouth."

"The one with the all the spunk?" asked Montcalm, caressing Aramis’ cheek till his fingers found his chin. The guard nodded, provoking a smile from his leader.

Aramis squirmed.

"Don't," warned Montcalm, shaking his head. "It's so unbecoming." Then he stepped back, roughly releasing Aramis' chin. "Tie him up!" he ordered with a flick of his wrist.

The guard dragged Aramis to the wheel.

"No!" cried Athos, but was immediately restrained by surrounding guards.

Aramis' shirt was removed before being thrown against the wheel by the guard.

But when the guard raised Aramis' arm to tie to a spoke, the marksman let it fall to his side. He even let his knees buckle, playing the role of the passive resistor. It finally took four guards to get him into position. Two of them tied him up, as the other two held him upright.

And when the show was over, and the guard was in position, whip in hand...

Athos closed his eyes.

The slaves watched in silence from their knees.

And Montcalm admired his manicured nails.

Aramis heard the crack of the whip. His muscles tensed.

Nothing.

_Crack_.

Nothing again.

Aramis gritted his teeth. The guard was toying with him. The marksman pressed his forehead against the rim of the wheel and heard someone laugh, either the guard with the whip or Montcalm, he couldn't be sure. And he didn't much care. He just wanted it over with. And the sooner they started, the sooner he would get his wish.

"Oh, I bet you'd just love to get a piece of me now, wouldn't you boy?" teased Montcalm, stroking the bare back of the slave on the wheel. When Aramis opened his eyes, Montcalm was smiling back at him. "You're a fighter aren't you?" the tyrant asked. "I can see it in your eyes. But you won't be for very long. Charles here will make sure of that.”

_Crack_.

Aramis squeezed his eyes shut. But again, nothing.

"Oh, I'm so enjoying this," sang Montcalm. "You see, the anticipation can be so much worse than the punishment itself, don't you agree?" He paused to clear his throat. "When I'm done with you, they will crown you the 'Ghost of France'. Through you, I will teach everyone who the Almighty is around here."

Aramis swallowed and turned away.

Montcalm stepped back slowly, smoothing down the front of his coat. "You may proceed, Charles," he said, the words rolling off his tongue thick with disdain and repulsion.

_Crack_.

Athos' eyes flew open.

 

_to be continued…_


	5. Chapter 5

 

V.

_"Here we are, gentlemen. Plenty of blood around as you will see!_  
_Problem is, it's in the wrong fucking place."_

_-_ Christopher Hudson, _’The Killing Fields'_  


With much effort, Athos hoisted a large chiselled concrete slab into place. His, immensely weaker new work partner, grimaced outwardly while rubbing his shoulder and rotating it behind his back.

_Aramis wouldn't have had problems with that,_ Athos thought bitterly.

The fact Aramis wasn't there made Athos hate the new prisoner even more. It was as if Aramis had been physically exchanged. But to the swordsman, Aramis could never be properly replaced.

In defence of the new slave, Athos recognized he had been there a lot longer than either he or Aramis. He was emaciated, with rib and hipbones protruding, and he hadn’t introduced himself either. He had not spoken a word. Athos assumed his new partner was afraid to speak, possibly afraid to reveal his true intelligence and instead, opting to save his life and hide behind ignorance and silence.

It was nearly sundown, which meant they would soon be herded back underground and, Athos hoped, he would see his friend again. After the beating that afternoon, Montcalm had left Aramis strapped to the wheel, unconscious, bleeding and exposed to the sun's burning rays.

It wasn't the first time this had happened. But for Athos and Aramis, it was definitely the one time that would not be forgotten. Lashes and torturous interrogation periods were quite common, but until this day neither he nor Aramis had been on the direct receiving end.

When it had ended, when Montcalm and the guard had had their fill, Athos and the rest of the slaves had been sent back to work with the lesson fresh and lingering in their minds. As far as Athos knew, Aramis was still strapped to the wheel with his body displaying the cold-hearted abhorrence of their captor.  

Athos couldn't shake the images of brother’ torture from his memory, no matter how hard he tried to preoccupy his mind. Athos worked with vigour, with energy, with a purpose- anything to keep himself from charging Montcalm and his men and ripping their limbs off, because in the end, Athos knew that would get him nowhere, aside from a one-way ticket to hell.

Athos also knew he couldn't take on Montcalm’s entire retinue, which he would have to do if he did attack because sure enough the guards would exact their revenge on the remaining innocent prisoners. And even in the after life, Athos knew he couldn't live with himself if he caused the death of another prisoner at 'Chateau Hellhole'.

So Athos resigned himself to work and wait until he could return to the cave. He had to believe Aramis would be there, wounded and sick, but at least there. And when the guards called for the roundup of slaves, Athos was the first in line.

It seemed to take forever to gather everyone this evening, as if the other prisoners were purposely taking their time filing into their designated groups. Eventually Athos’ cave mates were all present and accountant for, so their assigned guards shuffled them toward the underground entranceway.

But as much as Athos had been anticipating this moment, when it finally came, he couldn't move. The sudden realization that Aramis may not be there finally dawned on him. Athos had hoped so much that he would see Aramis again that he began to believe that indeed he would. The possibility of otherwise seemed unreal, till now.

When a guard shoved him from behind, Athos finally took a step forward, falling into place with the other slaves. He was in a daze, shaking, his mouth dry. _Oh please, please, for the love of all things decent, please let Aramis be there,_ he prayed as he followed the guards on weak legs. And when they passed through the compound, passed the wheel against the wall, Athos' anxiety intensified.

The wheel was bare.

Athos hoped it was a good sign. He thought about asking one of the guards if they knew anything, but decided against it, not sure if he was truly ready to know.

When they reached the opening to the underground cave network, Athos hesitated before stepping into the gaping maw. A cold shiver ran down his spine, and not just because the temperature had suddenly dropped. He could feel his neck hairs standing on end, and his pace slowed once again. The closer he got to his cavern, the more worried he became, his anxiety growing with each precarious step.

_Please let Aramis be there._

Slowed almost to a crawl, the other prisoners eager to get to their beds, bumped and jostled him as they passed by. Athos didn't care.

_Just let him be there. I'm not asking for much. You don't have to heal him, just let him be there. Aramis doesn't deserve to die like this. No one does. Perhaps Montcalm, but that's another story. Right now, I'm begging, I'm pleading; just let Aramis be there._

Having said his piece with God, Athos closed his eyes. With a hand running along the dirt wall for direction and support, he continued toward the opening to his cavern.

A shiver ran through him when the wall disappeared under his touch. He had finally reached his destination.

He froze.

Athos didn't think he could do it, but it was now or never. And since the guards were yelling at him to get a move on, he really had no choice. Tentatively, Athos stepped up to the cave's opening, stopping short of actually entering. He could see inside, but not completely, the dirt walls of the entranceway hid at least sixty percent of the internal view.

Trying to gather enough strength to make the last step of his journey, Athos drew in a deep breath, holding it as his right hand reached down to clutch his belt buckle.

The other prisoners had already entered, leaving him alone at the mantle with his hesitations. Athos tried to read their reactions, to see if they would show him any indication that his friend was in the cave. But they didn't care. For all Athos knew, the prisoners in the cave wanted Aramis dead- and him too for that matter. The other prisoners hadn't forgiven them for the other night's incident, and most likely never would. Most of them didn't even look back as they settled in for the night.

Except one.

One man took the time to pause, turn around and lock eyes with Athos. Athos stared back, begging with his eyes for any indication that Aramis was in the cave. The man finally smiled, or sneered, Athos couldn't tell, and before Athos had a chance to study it further for what it was, the man had turned away.

Athos gritted his teeth, made one more desperate plea, then took the last step. Realizing he still didn't have the view he so needed, he took another step forward, his heart slamming against his chest. When he saw no sign of Aramis in front of him, he turned around. For now that he was actually there, not even his own fear could hold him back from finding his friend any longer.

He spun himself around, his eyes searching every crevasse and corner of the dim cave. Stopping, Athos balled his hands into fists in front of his chest, closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. As he let it slowly escape his lips, he re-opened his eyes and turned them heavenward.

"Thank you," he whispered.

_~The Musketeers~_

Another long strenuous day had passed, but this time the search parties had gotten somewhere. As Porthos and the rest of the groups gathered around a fire to discuss tomorrow's activities, there was a certain feeling of accomplishment amongst them. They had been searching for days, but it wasn't until this day, they learned something directly related to finding their people.

Earlier that day, hope had dawned on a leafy bush near a river. D’Artagnan had found the abandoned articles of clothes, pauldrons and belts belonging to their brothers.

The discovery had exhilarated everyone, making it hard for Porthos to convince his particular party that now, more than ever, they needed to proceed carefully.

Especially now that they had learned more about the countryside’s political situation.

Someone was trying to create a new world. And their solution to future reprisals was to eradicate any and all forms of intellectualism. Someone wanted a world of subservient slaves, ones that were not and would never be able to enlighten themselves. Schools, businesses, culture and technologies were being destroyed by any means possible. Even it that meant killing whole families, regardless of age, sex or social status.

The remainders left to be ruled.

Over the next few days the search parties would really be put to the test. Everything being a musketeer had taught Porthos, or tried to teach him, would come into focus now, and he would have to set the example for the others. If they were going to successfully rescue Athos, Aramis and the presumed rest, they would have to push ahead with extreme caution.

Porthos knew this, and he knew the rest of the search parties did as well, but in their eagerness they tended to want immediate action. And Porthos could not blame them. He wanted his brothers back, and he wanted them back now. And not to belittle Athos, but an even bigger part of him wanted his best friend back. But immediate action was not on the menu quite yet, diligent discipline was still being enforced.

The constant reminders that they merely knew which direction to go, not a precise map, finally sunk into the heads of the anxious searchers. And now they were sitting around the fire discussing how to proceed, and how they were all too excited to sleep.

Porthos watched everyone with pride. On whole, the parties had merged together, but his people kept themselves separate, their minds reeling and devising on their own level.

And as Porthos' thoughts and memories about his musketeers became more rampant, a smile spread across his face.

_~The Musketeers~_

Athos saw Aramis lying on his back with his arms spread above his head as if discarded like a piece of trash. Aramis’ shirt had been returned to his back, which Athos could only imagine caused a severe chaffing to Aramis' already burning skin.

But he was there. Aramis was there.

But was he alive?

Athos couldn't tell as he stood in the middle of cavern. He couldn't see the rhythmic rising and falling of his friend's chest that usually pronounced breathing and life. Heart in throat, Athos ran for his friend, but in his haste, he dropped to the ground carelessly. He collided with his friend's prone body, his knees making contact with Aramis' side and causing a low moan.

Athos took that as a good sign and let out a deep breath. "Aramis?" he asked, as his hands clumsily tried to remove his friend's shirt.

Athos wanted to take it off, let Aramis’ skin feel air as opposed to the harsh reality of coarse dried sweat on cloth, but in Athos' frantic want to relieve his friend, his hands maneuverer as big giant mitts. He fumbled, his adrenaline and anxiety growing, and making his task that much more difficult.

Finally, after several damnable curses, Athos ripped the shirt up to reveal Aramis' bare chest. In the dim light Athos couldn't see any damage. No bruises or dried blood.

But it was Aramis' back that would display those.

Not wanting to further irritate his friend, but not really having a choice, Athos carefully rolled Aramis over. This caused further moans to escape his friend's lips, but he still didn't open his eyes. Athos cringed, apologizing as he caused further pain to his friend. In the end Aramis would be thankful, and that thought allowed Athos to continue.

He turned Aramis onto his stomach, positioning his head to the side and lowering his hands to his sides.

Athos paled when he saw the full extent of Montcalm’s madness. Not enough time had passed for the open wounds to completely heal closed, protecting Aramis' internal systems from infection and aggravation.

Athos turned his head away. There was so much blood. Too much blood. He couldn't even see where the whip had made contact, only their devastation and cruel effects.

The whole time Aramis had been strapped to that wheel experiencing the excruciating pain of the whip, Athos had kept his eyes open. As a friend, he felt he had no right to close them. He had to watch. He had to share in his friend's pain. If not directly, vicariously.

Athos had not blinked. Not even when the blood dripping from the whip's end splattered back on his face. As far as Athos was concerned, he owed it to Aramis to feel just as much pain, and standing there watching, with no way of stopping it, was Athos' way of feeling that pain.

But as Athos looked over the extent of his brother’s injuries, he knew that forcing himself to watch was in no way equal to what his friend had experienced.

Aramis would have to live with this pain the rest of his life, scars and all- carried on his back as a constant reminder. At least Athos could hide his scars. Put on a friendly face, and hide his memories. There was only so much a physician would be able to do for Aramis.

Aramis' scars would be there for everyone to see and ask questions. Never letting him forget. A burden for him to carry.

Athos gritted his teeth as he turned back to his friend still unconscious before him. It was one thing to bandage a wound, or splint a broken arm, but this was way out of Athos’ league. Even if he did know what to do, there was nothing to do it with. No water. No clean cloths. Nothing.

Nothing to do but sit there on his knees, head clasped between his hands, willing him to get better. But of course, mind control wasn't one of Athos's attributes, so all he did was stare.

"Did I win?"

Athos nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Did I win?" Aramis repeated, his voice slow and weak.

Athos was barely able to understand, and placed a hand on the back of Aramis' head, the only spot he could think of that wouldn't cause any pain. "Yes, my friend," he said quietly. "You won."

His eyes straining to stay open, Aramis shifted as if trying to make himself more comfortable, but the movement only caused him to grimace. "What does the other one look like?"

"Just lie still," proscribed Athos, astounded by his friend's ability to retain a sense of humour through this. "Just lay still and it'll be all better."

Aramis nodded, barely, as Athos watched his eyelids flutter and close.

Athos braced his hands on his knees and pushed himself up with determination. He looked about the cavern, and noticing no one heeding them any attention, he knew he would have to look elsewhere for help. It was a long shot, but he had to try.

Athos spun on his heel and marched to the cavern opening.

The moment he stepped into the cave hallway he was grabbed by a guard and thrown against the wall forcefully.

"Where do you think you're going?" hissed the guard, his massive body pressing against Athos.

"My friend needs help," stated Athos, trying not to show the guard how uncomfortable he was. The rough stone of the cave's wall was digging into his back, and the arm wedged into his throat wasn't helping either.

"And that concerns me how?" asked the guard.

Athos swallowed hard. Honestly, he couldn't think of a single reason why it should be this guard's concern, other than moral decency, but Athos didn't think that approach would get him very far. He was looking over the guard's shoulder trying to think of something... anything... to help his situation when he noticed the guard was uncharacteristically alone. For how long, Athos didn't know.

"You don't come across as someone who likes extra work," started Athos, placidly stroking the shoulders of the over-developed guard. "And breaking in a new prisoner sounds like considerable work to me."

The guard leaned back, releasing some of the tension between their two bodies. Eyeing him sideways, he replied, "What are you getting at?"

Athos cleared his throat. "If my friend in there dies, Montcalm will be one man short in the slave labour department. Which means..." Athos paused, hoping the guard would pick up on the implications. When the guard didn’t answer, Athos shook his head. _Bloody fool._ "You're going to have to go out there and find more prisoners," he continued, matter-of-factly.

The guard scrunched his face, stepping back further as he released his grip. "Go on."

Athos straightened his shirt and then leaned forward just enough to get in the guard's face, but not enough to threaten him. "You seem to have it quiet nice here, am I right?" he asked.

The guard looked around and nodded. "Yeah, pretty good. Get'n work is hard these days and Montcalm feeds us well, keeps a roof over our heads."

"Face it," Athos continued, spreading his arms in a grand gesture. "You have it better than most people."

The guard blushed as he kicked absently at the gravelled ground. "Yeah," he grinned, sheepishly. "It is pretty good."

Athos nodded his head with a mischievous smile, then pointed a finger at the guard to force his next point. "Yes, it's a pretty nice set up you've got going. But... and I do stress this part so listen carefully. What's it like out there hunting for more prisoners?" Athos nodded his head as he saw a light forming behind the guard's eyes. “Yes. It isn't very nice is it?"

"Bad food," mumbled the guard. "Sleeping in the rain..."

"And I'm pretty sure those prisoners don't come along easily either," added Athos.

"No, they don't," agreed the guard. "One of them actually bit me!" he stated, pointing to the teeth marks on his right forearm.

Athos shook his head in mock disgust, but the guard didn't allow Athos too much time in his reveries, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him close.

"But what does this have to do with me?" snarled the guard, quickly dropping his friendly demeanour.

Athos squirmed under the grasp but managed to keep his cool. "If you help me, possibly get me some water and some cloth, I may be able to keep my friend alive. Then you wouldn't have to go out and find a replacement." Athos paused, but didn’t receive any sort of response from the guard. "No one has to know!" he rushed, trying to further his position. "It'll be our secret."

Athos watched the reflections of many ideas floating through the guard’s mind. Finally, the guard released his grip, tossing Athos toward the cavern's entrance.

"I'll see what I can do," replied the guard with a grunt. "Now get back in there before the others return."

Athos didn't want to press the issue any further, so with nothing but hope he had gotten through he rushed back into the cavern and re-took his vigil beside his friend.

Aramis hadn't moved since Athos had left, but he was still breathing, and that became Athos’ security blanket. As long as Aramis was breathing, Athos believed his friend would be all right. It was all Athos had to hold onto.

It was quite some time before everyone in the cavern fell asleep. Aramis had woken up a few times, but only briefly enough to say a few incoherent words then fall back asleep. Athos remained wide-awake, eagerly waiting for the guard's possible return. And when he did, Athos felt a huge weight released from his shoulders.

The guard approached him carrying a bucket of water. He placed it beside Athos, then proceeded to pull a cloth from inside his shirt. "I had to hide this," explained the guard, handing it to Athos.

Athos nodded and took the cloth gingerly as he kept a careful eye on the guard. It was a strange situation having one of the evil minions helping the help, so Athos was waiting for something to go wrong. Nothing had so far, so he thanked the guard and dipped the cloth into the water. Athos wrung it out, carefully unravelled it and gently placed the cool wet cloth on Aramis' back.

Aramis winced, then settled as the cooling effects of the cloth sunk into his skin and wounds. Athos proceeded with this as the guard squatting next to him watched quietly. After some time, Athos had forgotten he was there. So when the guard nudged him in the arm, Athos flinched.

"So, how is he?" asked the guard.

_So, there's decency in you after all,_ thought Athos, as he smiled back at the guard. "I don't know," he replied, re-dipping the cloth. "But this will definitely help."

"Good," answered the guard, then quickly cleared his throat and jumped to his feet. He reached for the bucket and carried it toward the fire burning in the centre of the cavern.

Caught off guard, Athos spun on his knees to confront the guard. "Hey, what are you doing?" he asked.

The guard showed no threatening nature as he turned back to Athos. "I can't leave here without the bucket," stated the guard, indicating the fire. "There had to be a good reason for me to bring it in. There are other guards out there now... And this was our little secret, remember?"

Athos looked at Aramis. He was still in need of medical attention, but the guard had a point. All the guards’ help would be for naught if the other guards knew what was going on and came in here and killed everyone anyway.

Athos nodded as he watched his precious bucket of water being emptied onto the burning fire. When the guard finished vanquishing the embers he strutted out of the cavern, pausing only to nod in Athos' general direction.

As Athos turned back to his friend, he heard a faint voice in the cave hallway saying, “…the fire was get'n too big...had to put it out. Don't want them get'n soft in there."

Athos sighed and leaned back against the cavern wall. There was still a long night ahead for him, for both of them, for all of them, and he wanted to stay awake to keep an eye on his friend. But he knew that was impossible. The stress and physical exertion of the day was beginning to take its toll, and he could feel his eyelids getting heavy.

He forced them open, remembering a little something he had so carefully hidden on his possession earlier that day.

After reaching into his shirt, Athos slowly pulled out the coil of rope. "My little friend," he said, kissing the rope. He then positioned himself over Aramis' body. "If anyone tries to take you tonight," he said under his breath as he wrapped one end of the rope around Aramis' torso, just low enough not to interfere with the wounds. "I'll know about it."

Then Athos tied the rope off and the other end to his own torso, carefully concealing it under his shirt. He settled himself down next to his friend, covering the exposed rope between with the dirt from the cave's floor.

It wasn't much, and Athos didn't know how he would be able to fight anyone off, or even it he would be killed in the process, but it was something. And it would make sleep that much easier on this particular night.

Athos grasped his friend's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze before releasing it and closing his eyes. "No one can say Athos breaks his promises," he said, taking in a deep breath. "I will get us out of here."

_~The Musketeers~_

Scouts arrived at the break of dawn, having traveled though the night to reach the main core. Porthos and the others greeted them with mixed feelings. Some were anxious and ready to continue forth, but others were beginning to realize the true implications of the breaking day.

Porthos was of the latter. It was one thing to search, it was another to rescue. And he still didn't know what would be waiting for them when they did find the missing people.

Would they be hostages? Would they be alive? Would they even be there? Wherever there was, they still weren't accurate on that. These questions stemmed most of the conversations that morning as the search parties geared to set out.

"I only followed a short distance," a scout was saying as Porthos and d’Artagnan listened. "So really, I only know the general direction in which they started out."

"And they could have altered from that course at any time," added Porthos, slowly letting his breath out.

"Exactly," stated d’Artagnan.

"We were able to gather a little information ourselves," offered another scout, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from a pouch fastened on his belt. "We've seen and heard several reports of massive supply troops traveling through the country side."

"Do you have any idea where they were going?" asked Porthos.

The scout scratched his head, causing his hat to tilt askew on his head. "Vague directions," he replied, fixing his headdress with a frown. "But from what we've seen, it looks like the two positions collide... Just off this river here," he said, pointing to the map section of his paper.

D’Artagnan and Porthos studied the map, trying to memorize its details. They were in relatively unfamiliar territory now. They had traveled outside the boundaries they normally worked.

"So, you think we should follow this route?" asked Porthos, tracing his finger along the river, due north of their position marked on the map.

The scout nodded. "The river's in the same direction," he replied, pulling the map from Porthos' grasp. He tucked it back into his pouch, closing the clasp carefully. “We should ready ourselves now," he said, nodding and spinning on his heel to leave.

Porthos watched the scout make his way through the crowd. Then he noticed a familiar face break from the group. "Doctor," he said, as he approached. “Are you ready?”

Lemay nodded. "I'm ready," he replied, bracing his hands on her hips. "Everyone else seems prepared as well."

D’Artagnan remained stoic, but inside, a certain feeling began to manifest in his stomach. He couldn't describe it, but it wasn't pleasant. He quickly shook his head and tried to ignore it, pushing it away as thoughts of the impending rescue took over his mind.

_~The Musketeers~_

_“Our cart broke a wheel," said one of the men._

_Athos nodded, then noticed the man and his partner share sideways glances. As Athos turned to warn Aramis… a crushing pain exploded at the base of his neck._

Athos woke with a start. His body shot upward into the sitting position, his skin dripping with sweat as his heart pounded in his chest. It was the same dream.

And each time he woke from the dream, his mouth tasted like he’d just licked the soles of a thousand pairs of boots. He licked his lips, tried to scrape the thick fuzz that accumulated on his tongue. Then a cold shiver ran through his body.

The cave was still dark, but he could see forms moving about like ghosts, silent and slow. He leaned around his arm to check on Aramis. He was still there, but Athos could see him shivering. Quickly, Athos rolled onto his knees to examine his friend better.

Reaching tentatively, Athos felt the back of Aramis' neck. It was cold. And now that he was touching him, he could feel the full extent of Aramis' shivers. He was nearly convulsing.

The cavern was freezing.

Having the fire extinguished the night before meant the normal morning chill was down right unbearable. And now that Athos was coming down from his night sweats, he was also starting to feel the cold. He looked over his other shoulder to the fire pit and untied himself from Aramis. He decided to get it going again. But as he approached, his heart sank.

He could feel the mushy ground beneath his feet, indicating the pit was still wet. There was no way he was going to get a fire started here. Damning everything he could think of, Athos returned to his brother.

He was still asleep, or at least gave the impression of one asleep, but his body shook violently. Athos chewed his lower lip while looking around the cavern for something to burn. His hands braced on his hips, Athos tapped on his waist absently. Then it occurred to him. The solution was right at his fingertips.

Athos undid his belt, and then the belt holding up his pants. He held both out in front of him, grasping them with earnest. "Yes!" he cheered, through gritted teeth.

He ran to the fire pit, searching for long sticks that had not succumbed to the previous fire. When he found two relatively dry ones, he began to prepare them. He wrapped his utility belt around one end of a stick and carried it to the other side of the cave where he plunged it into the ground. Then he broke off a small twig from the stick and placed it on a nearby rock. Swiftly, and with practiced accuracy, Athos banged a rock on the twigs tip, igniting it after several attempts.

Carefully, and with steady hands, Athos moved the inflamed twig toward his makeshift torch. The leather ignited, and he smiled. It didn't give off much light, and it had a rather rancid stench, but it would emanate heat longer than the damp stick alone, which was more important.

As he turned to head back to the pit to gather the makings of his other torch, he felt a hand grasp him gently on the arm. His head swivelled to face a young man leaning close to the torch.

"Thank you," said the man, before releasing his grip and falling back into the darkness.

Athos closed his eyes and let the words move through him. It was amazing what two little words could mean to someone. And right now, they meant the world to him.

With renewed energy, he nearly ran back to the fire pit. He quickly gathered his impromptu tools and headed to Aramis. As he knelt down beside him, he noticed that Aramis had moved. He was now facing him, his right hand lying beside his face, but his eyes were still closed.

"Aramis?" asked Athos, not sure if he would get a response. Since there wasn't, he proceeded to fashion the next torch.

_~The Musketeers~_

Aramis wasn't sure when he had crossed over from the world of the unconscious to the conscious, but he definitely felt the difference. In sleep he was at peace, no pain, no reminders. No cold. No fear. But awake, all those things bombarded him, encompassing him in their relentless tentacles and invading every part of his body.

Aramis didn't have the energy to push them back, to fight them off. He wanted sleep. He wanted to slip away quietly into the darkness and safety of oblivion. But a noise caught his attention, a soft scuffling of boots on gravel, and the unmistakable sounds of breathing.

Something touched the back of his neck he couldn't identify, his back was too numb to feel much more than the stinging welts from the whip. All Aramis knew was that it was reassuring. He liked it, and he felt his heart drop when it eventually removed itself.

Taking several deep breaths, which caused considerable pain as his back expanded and contracted, Aramis slowly lifted his head, turning to face the other direction. He forced his eyes open, and stared out at the dark expanse of the cavern.

Laying there, trying to make sense of the figure moving about the cavern, a lock of his hair fell into his eyes. He tried to blow it away, but his efforts were futile and the more he tried, the more the arrogant lock bothered him. It tickled his forehead, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could stand having it rest there.

Drawing from his remaining strength, Aramis slowly drew his arm up the side of his body, wincing at the pain. His hand now laying aside his face, he flicked his wrist, throwing the hair off his face.

But he only experienced a moment's pleasure before reality returned. Aramis could see his own hand trembling before his eyes as he lay there staring. It was mesmerizing, and he remained that way for quiet some time, just watching his own hand, dirty and shaking.

It wasn't until he saw a small spark across the cavern that his eyes flickered. Then he heard soft muffled voices in the distance. Moments later he saw, and felt, Athos kneel beside him. Aramis closed his eyes, letting the security of his friend's presence lull him into a peaceful quiet. He heard his name, but didn't have the energy to respond. By the time he finally opened his eyes, Athos was no longer paying him any attention.

Aramis watched in confusion. He saw Athos drive a large stick into the ground. Then he watched Athos study something in his hands. It was long and dark, with a silver clasp attached to one end. Aramis tried to identify the object, and when Athos held it up to his mouth, letting his eyes close as he gently kissed the silver clasp, Aramis recognized the buckle. It was the one he had given him.

But what was Athos doing with it now? Why had he removed it?

What shocked Aramis more, was that Athos was removing the clasp and burying it in the ground by his knees. Aramis kept his eyes trained on the spot where his friend buried his treasure.

Aramis couldn't imagine why Athos had just done that, but a few moments later, he had a reasonable idea. Athos had hid the buckle, hopefully for safekeeping, and used his belt as a torch.

Aramis could feel its heat licking at his body. It felt good. It felt warm. And Aramis momentarily forgot what his brother had just sacrificed to keep him, Aramis the-ever-growing-burden, warm. He closed his eyes and let the warmth envelope him.

_~The Musketeers~_

Satisfied with the second torch, Athos stood and surveyed the room. Several more prisoners were up now, instinctively migrating to the heat stick across the cavern. But as cold as it was, and as little heat as the torch gave off, no one ventured to the one before him.

He and Aramis were still the most feared men in the cavern. Nobody wanted to be seen near them.

For some reason this didn't bother Athos as much as it might have. For if they had gathered around his brother’s torch, they might have taken away the heat in which his friend so dearly needed. Athos sighed and turned back to his friend. Then he remembered the rope still tied around Aramis' torso.

He paused for several beats after untying it, trying to decide what to do with the rope. Then realizing there was nothing holding his pants up any longer, Athos laced the rope through his pant loops and fashioned himself a belt. But he was satisfied. Now it would serve a purpose both day and night.

If there was another night.

The thought slammed into Athos's mind like a canon ball. What was to become of Aramis now that day had broken?

His eyes wide, his hand quickly rising to his forehead, Athos turned to Aramis. “My God," he breathed, unimaginable thoughts screaming through his mind. "How are you going to make it through the day?”

_~The Musketeers~_

The map, in conjunction with the newfound directions, had proven fruitful. The search party had finally found salvation. And as the scouting party stood crested on the top of a large hilltop looking down into the valley, each member felt in their own way the full implications of what they were up against.

Below, encompassed by two jagged hills, a forest and a rushing river, was a site that left them all feeling small. Nothing in life had prepared any of them for what they were witnessing. Some found themselves gaping and covering their mouths as they took in all that was below in the valley.

They had found Montcalm and all his massive power, despotism and inhumanity.

They just hadn't had the pleasure of meeting him yet, or knowing his name. Or even understanding what they were looking at. They just knew the people they were looking for were down there. Prisoners in someone's evil scheme.

Porthos turned away clutching his stomach and stumbled a few steps down the hill out of sight. Moments later, the rest of the scouting party did the same, removing themselves from direct eyesight of the men below. Porthos felt someone beside him, and looked up to see d’Artagnan standing above him. Porthos closed his eyes, sucking his lower lip into his mouth as he tried to fight back the urge to throw up.

"Porthos," said d’Artagnan, "now, more than ever, you must pull everyone together. You must be strong... For their sake."

Porthos nodded from his bent position and drew in a deep breath. When he stood, he realized he hadn't been the only one so strongly affected. Several others were bent over, clutching their stomachs while others were standing rod straight, their faces white and expressionless. Porthos clenched his jaw and nodded. "I can do this," he whispered. "I will do this... For Athos and...Aramis," he finished, locking eyes with d’Artagnan.

"Good," replied d’Artagnan. "Because if this plan is going to work, we need you in top form. We must keep strong, and do this correctly and precisely. There isn't room for mistakes. No room for questions. And no place for insecurities."

Porthos nodded, unable to voice his agreement due to the incredibly large lump in his throat. Solemnly, he turned his head to look back over his shoulder, and then closed his eyes.

Aramis and Athos were down there. He knew it. He could feel it, stronger than anything he had ever felt before. And he wished he could turn back time, go back to that day his friends disappeared, and do it all over again. For what he had just seen, what he had just witnessed in the valley below was enough to break even the strongest man.

In the short time he had stood on that perch, on top of the hill looking down into the valley, Porthos had seen the most horrific, desperate and heartless scene he could imagine. There was nothing worse than a bonded spirit. And that's what genocide and slave labour was. And his friends were in the heart of it all enduring it first hand.

"We're coming," Porthos whispered into the air, hoping somehow it would be carried in the breeze to the ears it was intended. "We're coming. Just hold on.”

 

_to be continued…_


	6. Chapter 6

 

VI.

“ _Feelin' lonely. Even though I'm never alone..._  
_Sorry, I'm not the guy you thought I'd be."_

 _-_ 3 Deep, _’Chuckie's Song'_  


Montcalm stepped out of his tent into the early morning mist of the valley. It was a rare moment to find Montcalm alone, unattended by slaves, servants and his precious guard, but he liked to keep this time of day to himself.

With the rising sun came a new day; a new chance to accomplish his dreams. Montcalm so loved his dreams. Dreams of grandeur. Dreams of domination and power. Without them, he knew he would be nothing. For in all his arrogance, he thought his desire to rule France separated him from the layman. He believed only a great man could have such dreams. And only a greater man was capable of executing them with as much precision as he.

He smiled as he closed his eyes and breathed in the early dawn air. It was warm and familiar. A smell he was greeted with each morning. And this morning it was even sweeter for last night the guards had been very busy.

Montcalm opened his eyes and stared out at the panorama before him, pride coursing through his veins.

Part of the compound's floor had been excavated the day before by the workers, unbeknownst to them the true purpose of the gaping hole they were digging. Only a few knew its purpose. And as Montcalm regarded them, a special few.

In actuality many people knew, only he didn't care about them- they were dead. They had come from nothing, been nothing- until they had served their purpose with him. And in the end, Montcalm had returned them to nothing. He took a certain pride in that. Like he was both the creator and destroyer of mortals. He would cast these people back to the Stone Age and build a new people, illiterate and subservient to his rule.

What he was doing now, what his men were doing per his orders, was destroying the waste of intellectuals. Removing any future threats and opposers toward his leadership. Wiping the discarded nothings from his hands.

Bodies; the tortured, desecrated and burned educated souls and their families who could one day retaliate against their new leader, were being dumped into the large gapping pit. It was a mass funeral, and no one was invited.

Especially the lone figure standing on the opposite horizon watching from afar.

His two legs planted firmly on the ground, his arms crossed over his chest, Porthos could not turn his eyes away. A grey mist, slow and dense, hovered over the valley floor like ghosts not ready to ascend into eternity. Porthos prayed for them, wishing them a peaceful journey.

Never in his life had he seen such an atrocity. It was co-ordinated evil.

The guards were rolling, kicking and dumping the bodies into the pit. Some even tossed them in like a game, cheering when they achieved nice distance and accuracy. And some were using the bodies for target practice.

Porthos’ muscles tensed. His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. It took all his self-control not to scream until the planet shattered.

"The actions people are capable of..." started a voice behind him, quietly trailing off as the person approached.

Porthos turned to see d’Artagnan standing next to him- his eyes wide, and Porthos was sure, tinged with anger. For several moments he let d’Artagnan stand alongside him and watch in silence.

"I get more confused by what the world reveals to me each day," Porthos finally said, returning his gaze to the valley.

Porthos’ eyes fell upon an area to the side of the pit where bodies were piled high waiting to be forsaken. Animals from the surrounding forest had approached and were wandering the compound. Some had even found their way to the burial ground. It was a memorable sight- wild animals eating charred bodies.

Porthos shook his head and turned back to d’Artagnan. "One day in life there shouldn't be any pain." He closed his eyes, thinned his lips.

“It looks like a waiting room for death down there," whispered d’Artagnan.

"If anything happens to our friends, someone will live to regret it," Porthos seethed, not tearing his gaze from the valley.

"I think it's time,” d’Artagnan replied.

_~The Musketeers~_

The guards were coming.

Each morning the sound of boots clomping through gravel and the grumbling of many unhappy men, usually sent a siren rushing through Athos' brain: Get up! Get moving! But this morning, they were screaming something slightly different: _What the bloody hell am I going to do?_

Athos grasped his head as if the act of pulling one's hair out would change the situation. He turned to Aramis lying on the cave floor. His friend was still asleep, and Athos wasn't sure if he'd be able to wake him. Never mind the fact that Aramis probably shouldn't get up in his condition.

But being left with few options, Athos dropped to his knees. "Aramis," he whispered. "Come on, you can wake up... You have to wake up." He stopped shaking him long enough to check for a reaction, any reaction.

Aramis furrowed his brow and coughed violently, sending his body into convulsions. Athos rolled him toward himself and onto his side making it easier for Aramis' body to absorb the pain, and placed a hand behind his head for support. “Are you alright?" he asked.

Aramis nodded slowly, his movements strained and weak "Now that my face is no longer buried in the ground."

Athos grimaced. "Sorry, but I thought you'd be more comfortable on your stomach."

Aramis closed his eyes, nodded. "You know what?" he sighed, before pulling away from Athos. "This is much worse. Your knees are in my back!" he yelled, throwing himself onto his stomach again.

Someone was entering the cavern, so Athos negated his apology and spun to see the guard from last night rushing toward him.

"Get him up," urged the guard in a low harsh voice. "Get him up now. I won't be alone very long. More guards are com'n."

Athos grabbed Aramis by the belt, despite constant groans and repudiations, and hoisted him to his feet. After a moment, Aramis was able to stand on his own.

Aramis stood rod straight, trying desperately not to make any motions that might cause movement to his skin or back. His eyes were glazed over with tears he didn't want to let fall. It was a look of desperation, of fear. Athos had only seen that look once before on Aramis, which was why Athos was able to recognize it now. It was the same look Aramis had given the day before...

When Aramis had asked him to leave him alone in the compound and save himself.

Athos hadn't abandoned him then, and he wouldn't abandon him now. The only thing that could make Athos leave his friend would be death itself; no matter how hard it was to look into his friend's face and tell him he had no answers, no relief... and barely any hope left.

"We're okay," acknowledged Athos, nodding to the guard.

The guard jabbed a finger in Aramis' direction. "If he wants to keep living, he better keep that act up. There ain't noth'n more I can do," he warned.

Athos nodded. "And again, thank you," he replied.

The guard held his stare with Athos a beat longer to acknowledge the gratitude then turned to join the rest of the guards now entering the cave. Athos bit his lip and slowly led Aramis to the line of prisoners setting themselves up to leave.

_~The Musketeers~_

By early afternoon Aramis had found a nice shady place in which to lie down. Nice being the relative word. Nothing was nice in Montcalm’s compound, but as far as Aramis was concerned, out of sight was the total embodiment of the word.

He and Athos had been sent to the gravel pit, which meant plenty of places one could bury themselves and keep hidden from surveying eyes. It also helped that Athos was nearby and would warn him if anyone came close or started asking questions.

But at the moment, Athos was preoccupied.

Athos wasn't paying attention to Aramis' safety, but rather to the guard that had just walked past. The guard had actually smiled. Nothing menacing or cynical, but a down to earth, friendly grin. Athos even thought, if only for a brief moment, that he had actually recognized the guard and had smiled back. But then reality stepped in and brought Athos back to the cruelty of Montcalm’s compound.

But for that brief moment, the moment the guard had flashed his pleasant smile, Athos was back amongst the Musketeers. Back in his old familiar stomping grounds casually strolling toward the armoury and greeting others upon passing. It was a pleasant memory, and one that Athos was beginning to think he would never experience again. So thinking about it now only frustrated him deeply.

He decided to think about something else. Since there was a large rock before him, he decided to concentrate on that.

He lifted his sledgehammer high over his head, poised to crack the head of the rock when he paused- arms still raised, the hammer full of kinetic energy. Slowly, he turned to find the smiling guard and lowered the hammer.

The guard was gone. And so were several other guards that had been in the immediate area.

"Get back to work!"

Athos didn't look around for who had shouted the order. All he needed to know was that they were close, so he kept his eyes trained on the giant rock before him. Then he remembered something. Or more to the point, someone. Someone who was sleeping behind a nearby rock.

"Aramis," he said, dropping the hammer behind his back

He set his jaw, his eyes darting back and forth. He didn't want to appear suspicious, but he had to check on Aramis. He bolted for the large rock hiding his friend, forgetting who might be watching. But when he suddenly remembered his circumstances, he slowed his pace.

Rolling his neck, trying to get out the kinks as well as use it as an excuse to covertly glance about, he searched for prying eyes. A few guards were gathered to his left, but they had their backs to him. And in the distance, perched on top of several larger rocks, were more guards, but they didn't seem to be paying any attention to the workers either.

Athos quickened his pace, and upon reaching his friend's hiding place, he leaned over and looked down at the shaded area.

Empty.

"Oh shit.”

_~The Musketeers~_

Aramis shifted and groaned as he tried to find a position that would leave him in the least amount of pain. Unfortunately, when your back feels like it's on fire no position is comfortable. But Aramis kept trying anyway, even though it caused him further misery and aggravation. Eventually, and after banging his head on the rock he was using for cover, he decided to stay put. He quit trying to do the impossible.

 _Quit_.

The word reverberated around his brain, bouncing off memories and images and bringing them back to life- vivid and real in his mind. _That word will be chiselled on my grave,_ he thought, rubbing his forehead on the loose stones of the gravel pit floor.

Aramis was on his stomach. Lying on his back, although his preferred sleeping position, was the most painful. Even the extra layer of protection- the cloth Athos had left on his back over night, wasn't helping. In fact, it was itching beyond belief. But Athos had not been able to remove it that morning. Over the course of the evening the cloth had dried to his back, his blood clotting and fusing with the makeshift bandage.

Aramis had wanted Athos to remove it, to stop the itching, but in the end, Athos thought it wiser to leave it where it was. The cloth would act as a barrier between his skin and the course material of his sweat stained shirt.

But right now, as Aramis lay behind the rock in the pit with nothing else to think about except his own misery, he was beginning to think the shirt would be a nice contrast.

 _It couldn't be any worse,_ he thought, slowly reaching a hand behind his back in an attempt to peel away a corner of the bandage.

The effort was too much. Aramis dropped his hand beside his face and gave up, again. _I can't do anything right,_ he accursed himself, not for the first time in the last few weeks. _Aramis… the one who can't do anything right. Yes. That is definitely going to be tattooed on my grave_.

Aramis decided enough was enough. He wasn't going to be anyone's burden any longer. Not Athos'. Not Porthos'. Not Treville’s.

He knew Athos would have a better chance of escape if he didn't have to think about him. Athos was a brave man; a man destined to do great things, and lead people to great victories.

And Treville, well, he was the best leader in France, with the heart and determination of a hero. And d’Artagnan, he had already proven himself more than once to Aramis.

And then there was Porthos. His best friend.

 _That's what I am. A burden,_ Aramis thought to himself, letting his eyes open. The only thing he could see was the dark grey outline of the rock before him. It was a bleak view, which suited Aramis just fine. He felt like him and that rock shared some sort of connection.

The rock was nothing. No one would ever love it. It wasn't the son of some great bolder, nor was it destined to rule the gravel pit. It was just a rock. Grey. Bleak. Useless… and not about to become anything without the help of others. The rock would not be part of something bigger in life until someone came along and did something to it- broke it down, smoothed it out, and turned it into a statue or brick.

The thought was sobering for Aramis. _I'm a rock. I'm nothing without my friends. Just a reckless man who people took into their lives. And what good has that done them? None. I can't even take care of myself, let along anyone else._

Thoughts of Queen Anne and their child sprang to his mind, twisting the blade of shame in his heart even further.

Bracing his hands beside his shoulders, Aramis pushed himself up with a grimace.

Aramis wanted to do the right thing by the queen and their child, but there was no way he could without invoking disastrous consequences that would ruin all their lives.

 _Aramis the burden_.

 _Not any more,_ thought Aramis, leaning on the large rock behind him for support as he stepped around it. But dizziness landed him sprawled on top of the rock instead of on the other side.

 _Maybe people are right_ , Aramis told himself, trying once more to make his way around the rock. _I am nothing. And I'll most likely become nothing..._

 _Well, I'm not going to be anyone's burden any longer_.

Slowly, Aramis pulled his way around the rock as he surveyed the grounds for watchful guards. When he saw a group gathered off to his right, he turned himself around and pushed off the rock. His intent was to free himself from Athos and give his friend a chance to survive. Aramis was going to sacrifice himself to Montcalm so Athos wouldn't have to worry about him any longer.

Stumbling towards the guards, Aramis’ back screamed for mercy, his vision blurred. He pushed ahead anyway. This was one time he wasn't going to be a burden to anyone. It was his time to be someone.

Aramis’ last act as a living man would be to help someone. He would help his friend Athos.

The thought made his last journey, the lonely journey to his death across the pit, almost bearable. And when he collapsed into the unsuspecting arms of one of the guards, there was a smile, plain and evident on his silent face.

_~The Musketeers~_

“Where did you go?" asked Athos, spinning to find his friend. He spotted a man stumbling toward a group of guards across the cavern. His heart nearly stopped. “Aramis..."

Athos sprinted after his friend, wanting to catch Aramis before he got himself killed. "What does he think he's doing?" Athos asked himself, as he ran, heart in throat.

But he was too late.

Athos was still several feet away when Aramis collapsed into the arms of one of the guards. Athos quickened his pace, reaching Aramis in time to stop the guards from pummelling his friend into oblivion.

"He's sorry!" pleaded Athos, pulling Aramis from the guard's grip. "It must be this heat. It won't happen again." Athos held Aramis upright, shielding him from the guards.

"No," slurred Aramis, trying to step around Athos. "No. This is right... Just let me die."

"Today you're not dying," replied one of the guards.

Athos flashed an exaggerated grin. "He didn't mean that," he said, trying to keep himself between Aramis and the guards. "Please, ignore him." Then Athos paused, furrowed his brow. "I'm sorry, did you say he wasn't going to die?"

"Just take care of him," replied the guard.

Athos blinked, momentarily forgetting his charge.

Aramis stumbled and fell to the ground. Athos only sparred his friend a fleeting glance. "Pardon me?" he said, starring at the guard who had issued the uncharacteristic words.

The guard leaned forward and helped Aramis to his feet. "It won't be long," he said, passing the fallen slave to a gapping Athos. "Just take care of him till it's time."

"What? What's going on? Who are you?" asked Athos, his mouth as dry as sand. His adrenaline was pumping hard, making his limbs shake. He couldn't understand. He couldn't make sense.

"We're here to help,” replied the man. “We're everywhere."

Athos blinked, shook his head and looked at the other guards in the group. _What's going on here?_ he asked himself, the words dying on his lips as he failed to speak them aloud.

The man patted Athos’ shoulder and looked into his eyes. "Your friend needs your help," he said, nodding at Aramis- now leaning heavily on Athos’ shoulder. "He doesn't look well."

Athos nodded and wrapped an arm around Aramis' waist for support. He was beginning to loose consciousness again, and had stopped his efforts to charge the guards. Athos was grateful for that as he looked back to the man. "What...?"

The man smiled. "In good time. In good time. Just go about your day as if you never saw us.”

_~The Musketeers~_

Porthos stood behind a thick tree at the edge of the forest. He was well concealed. The rest of the search parties were lined up along the perimeter of the compound, each using the forest and hills as camouflage. It was late afternoon, the sun high in the sky making the day clear and bright. They were preparing, and waiting, for the final stage.

Early that morning, Porthos' crew and town's folk had infiltrated the compound. Taking out the guards one by one till they had enough uniforms, they had replaced them and filtered back into the compound. It had been a very time consuming task, and very difficult, but men with a purpose could do any job if their minds were set. And the minds of these men, friends and relatives were more than just set.

They were hungry. Hungry for action. Hungry for retaliation. Hungry to see their loved ones returned and safe.

Porthos was proud. Not only of his people and how they had risen to the challenge, but to each and everyone present who was willing to put themselves in mortal danger to save the prisoners. He only hoped they would be rewarded with happy reunions.

No one knew for sure who was still alive. From their positions no one was able to recognize any particular prisoner. And there were plenty of prisoners to look through. But they were easily distinguished from the guards. They moved slow, staggered in the heat, and were dressed in rags or covered in filth. Most of the guards rode on horses, dressed in black leather and bore weapons.

Porthos noted the weapons with concern. The prisoners would be caught in the middle of this, defenseless and weak while the battle- that he was sure would ensue- raged around them. He prayed silently for their safety. To die now, right before their freedom, would be the greatest sadness of all.

"Porthos."

He heard his name, turned to the tree a few paces to his right. "Yes, d’Artagnan?" he replied, his voice low and controlled.

"Do you think this will work?" asked the Gascon, peeking his head around his tree nervously.

"We have to believe it will, or what's the point in following through?" replied Porthos.

D’Artagnan nodded and turned his attention back to the compound. They were waiting for the signal from Pierre- one of the first to infiltrate the camp that morning.

Porthos turned back to the compound but noticed d’Artagnan's body language- it was itching for retribution, for action, for Athos and Aramis. Porthos smiled, returning to his sentry duties with more confidence.

It was a short time later when they received the signal.

D’Artagnan noticed it first and let out a loud call that echoed throughout the valley- announcing to the other search party members the time had come. It was now or never. And for the sake of those prisoners in the compound, now was the preferred option.

Everyone tightened his or her jaws with vigour. Then, on Porthos' command, everyone charged forth- straight into the heart of the lion's preverbal den.

 

_to be continued…_


	7. Chapter 7

 

VII.

 _"The temperature is rising, the fever white hot._  
_Mister I ain't got nothing, but it's more than you've got._  
_These chains no longer bind me, nor the shackles at my feet._  
_Outside are the prisoners, inside the free..._  
_Set them free."_

 _-_ U2, ‘ _Silver and Gold’_  


It seemed like moments ago that Athos and Aramis had been sitting and eating their meal. Well, Athos had been eating, Aramis had just stared at his plate praying his stale bread would jump up and swallow him whole.

Aramis had tried several times to persuade Athos to leave him alone, to go away and save himself. But, like he had expected, Athos had refused and Aramis felt like a bigger burden. And now that everything was in an uproar, Aramis' emotions were intensified.

It was the perfect time for Athos to make a break for it, to run for the hills and save himself. But he wasn't. Athos was dragging him through the compound, through the clash of weapons, rampaging animals and hardened terrain, and trying to save him as well.

Truth be told, Aramis had no idea what was going on around him. But it was clear that this would be Athos' only opportunity to save himself.

"Just go!" yelled Aramis, struggling to free himself of Athos' persistent grip, but finding himself more entangled in his friend's arms. "Leave me behind! I'm slowing you down."

"No!" cursed Athos, throwing his friend over his shoulder. "I'm not leaving you! Now shut up!"

Aramis struggled further, but the pain coursing through his body deterred him. And it didn't help that Athos' shoulder was wedged into his stomach, making him feel more and more nauseous with each jolt. Finally, Aramis' inner defence system shut down his senses and he passed over to the world of unconsciousness.

Athos continued on unaware.

He felt Aramis heavy on his shoulder, and that was all he needed to know because there was too much going on around him to spare Aramis any more attention.

They were lost and consumed in a raging battle.

Athos swatted a falling guard with his free hand as he made his way through the compound. The wrath of battle was all around him, and he couldn't distinguish the good from the bad. The only ones easily detectable were the other prisoners.

They were either running about like chickens with their heads cut off, or standing in the middle of it all without a clue what to do. Athos felt sorry for them, but he had made a choice. He knew he couldn't save them all- that he would leave to the good guys, but he could save his friend. And he would save his friend. Even if that meant carrying him through this fight on his own.

So the battle ensued around him. Weapons against weapons. Projectiles against projectiles. Flesh against flesh. Bodies fell at Athos’ feet as he tried to manoeuvre around them. And even more bodies collided with him as they fought to keep their ground in their personal wars.

But Athos pressed on not sure where he was heading. It was chaos in the compound. Athos couldn't tell which way to go, which way to run. And Aramis was starting to get heavy.

Athos put him down next to a concrete slab, careful to lay him on his stomach. There was so much activity going on around him, he had to keep ducking to escape wild animals and people fighting. And he didn't even want to think about the long projectiles piercing the air.

Until he had no choice.

A searing pain in his left upper arm made the projectiles hard to ignore. Athos grabbed his arm, careful not to push the projectile deeper into his flesh. Clenching his teeth, he bit back the urge to cry out. Not that it would have mattered, there was so much noise one couldn't hear one's self think.

He looked at his new appendage. "Arrows?" he said to himself.

Blood oozed from the wound, spilling over his fingers. His left arm was limp, useless, and his fingers were tingling as the blood slowed to reach them. Athos looked at the wound and grimaced. "Why now?" he cursed, slowly wrapping the fingers of his right hand around the shaft of the arrow. He gave it a slight pull, shooting sharp pain up his arm and across his shoulder. The pain ran up his neck, ending in an explosion behind his eyes.

Athos could tell it was a loosely fastened arrowhead, and if he tugged on it again the shaft would most likely come out, leaving the arrow head embedded in his arm.

Athos knew what he had to do.

He glanced at Aramis unconscious beside him, then closed his eyes. His thumb placed lower on the shaft, Athos snapped the wood as he pulled his fingers in the opposite direction as he was forcing his thumb. It was a clean smooth break, and the arrow didn't move too much under his skin.

After several deep breathes, Athos pressed the palm of his hand on the ragged end of the shaft. With gritted teeth, eyes squeezed tight, he held his breath.

 _Please don't let this hit bone,_ he prayed silently.

In one forceful move, Athos thrust the arrow the rest of the way through his arm. He cried out as the sharp tip pierced through his muscle and skin to come out the other side of his limb.

Shaking, he reached behind his arm, grabbed the arrowhead and pulled it the rest of the way out. "That's going to leave a mark," he hissed, dropping the bloodied arrow to the ground.

Now he was bleeding more than before and knew he would have to cover the wound. Dragging himself with his good arm over Aramis' legs, Athos reached for the guard lying dead beside his friend. Fortunately for Athos, fierce fighting had shred the guard’s clothes, and it was easy for him to tear off a strip with one hand.

"Sorry," he apologized. "But I think I need this more than you right now." He was just about to turn over when he inadvertently looked into the dead man's eyes.

"Damn it," he cursed, recognizing the face of the guard that had helped him with Aramis the other day. But he didn't have time to mourn.

Rolling onto his back, and resting on Aramis' thighs, Athos tied the dirty cloth around his wound. He made sure to knot it directly on top of the wound, using his teeth as a replacement for his other hand. Then he let his head fall back. He was too weak to hold it upright any longer. His vision blurred, making the clouds overhead distort and fade together in grotesque images.

Athos felt the blood rushing from his head, adding dizziness to his accumulating symptoms. His arm was numb, like the rest of his body now. The sounds of the ensuing battle around him began to fade. A clash here, muffled screams there. Eventually it all sounded like music.

From the corner of his eye, he could see the fighters moving swiftly in slow motion across his field of vision- dancing to the music they were creating. It was a deadly ballet choreographed by their strategic manoeuvres, and their will to survive.

Athos let his head fall to the side so he could see Aramis' face. But it was buried by his arm lying haphazardly over his head. Athos watched his friend's back, looking for the rhythmic signs of respiration. His security blanket. Athos wasn't sure, but he thought he saw the muscles expand as Aramis drew in a breath.

"I'm sorry," murmured Athos, the last of his strength slowly draining. "I'm so sorry I failed you."

Before Athos' eyes closed tight, a weary smile spread across his lips. Hovering overhead was a familiar face. "Am I dead...?" he whispered, before blackness finally won its battle.

_~The Musketeers~_

D'Artagnan raised a flaming torch. He held it high above his head and waved it back and forth. From his perch atop one of the fortress walls he was easily visible to his friends hiding in the surrounding forest. Throwing his stolen black coat to the ground to reveal his true identity, d'Artagnan readied himself for the descent.

He jumped free of the wall and landed on the ground with both feet. It took a moment for his assault team to jump into action as well. Enough of them had infiltrated the camp to make an immense dent in Montcalm's defence. Although none of them knew exactly who Montcalm was, or even his name, they knew someone had to be in charge of this atrocity. And each member of the team wanted to be the one to bring him down.

D'Artagnan concentrated on the guard nearest him first. That was the plan. They would take them by surprise, and be careful not to harm any of the innocents in the interim. And there were plenty of innocents to be found. The guard d'Artagnan had decided to take out first was accompanied by several slaves, so d'Artagnan had to be careful.

He stepped up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. The guard didn't have time to completely turn around before he was rewarded with a fist to his face. The guard dropped to the ground in a heap as the slaves scattered. D'Artagnan flexed his hand and turned to find his next target.

Elsewhere in the compound the other members of the assault teams were doing the same; picking their way through the guards and taking them down one by one.

But some fights were not so clean.

Horses were brought down. Arrows, fists and weapons were sent piercing through the sky- some finding their marks, some finding other not so admirable marks. It was discord and turmoil. People were running everywhere trying to find the enemy, but with both sides wearing the same clothes the task was arduous and tedious. And several fights ensued where the same sides battled each other until they realized their mistake and moved on.

But through all this turmoil and discord, Porthos noticed one thing. One very odd, unsettling thing. No one seemed to be helping anyone. The guards fought to save themselves. The prisoners scrambled, thinking only of their own safety. Porthos noted this with disgust as he fought his way through the flailing arms and ricocheting arrows.

 _Don't they care about anyone but themselves?_ he asked himself, throwing a well-aimed punch at an attacking guard.

He pushed on, his eyes searching for the familiarity of his brothers. But he couldn't see them amongst the mess. He tried calling their names as he ducked, paused, took the time to place a well-planted foot in a man's chest and send him flying backward.

"Aramis! Athos!"

Porthos continued onward through the battleground shouting orders over his shoulder as he fended off the persistent, and somewhat surprised, guard before him.

He sent his people off in different directions, both to search for the despot responsible, and to find his two missing friends. It had been too long for his liking since this battle had started, and there was still no sign of either Athos or Aramis.

It wasn't until Porthos noticed two men shuffling through the battle that his heart lightened.

It had to be Athos and Aramis. As he had noted earlier, aside from those fighting along side him, no one else seemed to be fighting for anything other than themselves. But the two men making their way across the compound, one carrying the other, obviously had more important things on their minds beside themselves.

And he knew Athos and Aramis well enough to know that no matter what was going on they would always look out for each other. His brothers were proud and strong, and more importantly, devoted to each other.

Porthos thrust his fist into the belly of his current opponent, then stepped back to aim his foot, ending the private battle quickly.

He turned to find d'Artagnan amongst the crowd. Spotting him, Porthos waved his arms over his head.

"D'Artagnan!" he called, cupping his hands over his mouth. "Over there! Over there!" He pointed to the giant slab of concrete where the two men had just fallen, and prayed the Gascon would get there in time.

D'Artagnan ducked and weaved his way through flailing arms, fending off opposers as he went. Finally he reached his mark and bent over his fallen friends. Athos' eyes were already half closed, and d'Artagnan wasn't certain, but he could have sworn there was a faint smile playing on his lips.

"Am I dead...?" murmured Athos.

"You are not dead,” stated d'Artagnan, pulling Athos to his feet. He hoisted the fallen musketeer over his shoulder and turned to look for help.

Coming up behind, fighting his way through the onslaught, was Porthos. D'Artagnan didn't need to explain what was going on. Porthos rushed past him and scooped Aramis up in his arms.

"Let's go while the going's good," ordered Porthos, already making his way back through the deadly compound.

The Gascon followed, his charge securely over him shoulder.

_~The Musketeers~_

Doctor Lemay had not prepared for this when he had initially set out with the Musketeers. He had stayed behind in the nearest village during the rescue, setting up triage and medical first aid, should the need arise.

Unfortunately, the need had arisen, and on a level Lemay had not packed for.

But Paris was several days away.

Porthos had been the first to enter the small room, Aramis tight in his arms. Then d'Artagnan entered with Athos slumped over his shoulder. The musketeers had both stepped back after depositing their brothers and allowed the doctor to do his work.

As Doctor Lemay went about examining his patients, the two musketeers filled him in on the details he would need to know, and unfortunately, how no one had been able to find the despot responsible. The images forming in his mind as he listened to the tale of genocide and bondage made him want to retch. And he supposed retching on his two patients was definitely not the best way to cure them.

After doing a quick visual assessment, the doctor decided Aramis needed him the most. Athos, his arm wrapped in a filthy bandage, could wait or be taken care of by Porthos and d'Artagnan.

As the doctor set to work on Aramis, Porthos began caring for Athos' wounds by re-bandaging the arm with sterile dressings from Lemay's bag and stripping him of his filthy, tattered clothes. Athos was then put to rest in a fresh, yet somewhat large, set of clothes.

He would be fine. A little sleep, some good food and a long hot bath was the best prescription for Athos. Aramis on the other hand, was another story all together.

The doctor felt Aramis’ forehead and discovered a fever. A raging fever. No doubt from an illness picked up in the slave camp or acquired from the poor living conditions. Either way, the young man was unearthly sick. But he was regaining consciousness, which was a good thing. Or so the doctor thought. He was not yet aware of the full extent of the young marksman’s injuries.

As Aramis began to wake, he also began to stir restlessly, tossing his head back and forth and grimacing in pain. The doctor attributed it to the sickness and fever.

The thrashing continued as the doctor knelt beside him trying to keep the young man from apparently jumping out of his skin. He had to enlist the help of Porthos and d'Artagnan to hold the young man down. His patient was writhing in pain. His eyes were open, but unfocused and clouded with tears.

Athos heard the noise from deep within his slumber. It shot him upright in bed, sweating and shaking. It didn't take long for him to realize where the noise was coming from. He quickly threw off his covers and stumbled across the room, pushing everyone out of the way as he headed for Aramis. Athos knew he had to get to his brother. He had to stop his pain.

But he had to fight his way through d'Artagnan and the doctor to get to his friend. They were trying to hold Athos back, trying to stop him from inflicting harm to Aramis.

But Athos knew something they didn't. He tried his hardest to tell them to turn Aramis onto his stomach, but the words didn't come out right. Athos was too anxious and scared to form proper sentences. So instead, his words came out muffled and confused.

The rest of the people in the room had no idea what was wrong with Athos. Just that he seemed wild and out of control, and that he was trying to reach Aramis with outstretched arms.

It took a lot of self-discipline for Athos to calm himself down, but eventually he was able. And eventually he was able to articulate a full sentence. "His back," he said, taking deep breaths as d'Artagnan held him at bay. "Roll him onto his stomach. It's his back."

The doctor looked at him quizzically, and not seeing why he shouldn't believe him, he proceeded to roll his patient onto his stomach. This brought the thrashing to a near stop. But it was still present, only now it was merely unconscious shifting.

Athos drew in a deep breath before continuing his explanation. As he revealed what had happened to Aramis, he kept his eyes focused on the floor. The pain inside him was already too much for him to bear. He didn't need to see it reflected in Lemay's, d'Artagnan's or Porthos' eyes as well.

"My goodness," breathed the doctor, looking at his patient on the cot. "How can people be so cruel?”

"Can you help him?" asked Porthos, ignoring the doctor's dismay. "Will he be all right till we get back to Paris?"

The doctor pursed his lips, ran a hand through his hair. "I'll do my best," he replied, pulling a footstool up to Aramis' bed. "That's all I can say for now. But I ask that you leave," he continued, slowly stripping the shirt from his patient's back to reveal the blood soaked bandage. "This most likely won't be pleasant, and I don't need the distraction of you in the room."

Porthos was about to protest when a strong hand on his shoulder stopped him. "You, and Athos can wait outside," said d'Artagnan, his voice quiet yet obstinate. "I will stay with Aramis."

"What's he going to do?" rushed Athos, his eyes darting between Aramis and Lemay’s.

"I'll have to remove the bandage," replied the doctor. "And it will be painful. The blood's clotted and stuck the cloth to his skin. It'll take some time, and some careful hands, but I can do it. It needs to be done in order to clean the wounds. It would be easier under better conditions, but I can make do with what I brought."

"Please," said d'Artagnan, guiding Athos toward the door. "Wait outside with Porthos."

Porthos and Athos wanted to argue, but they knew their efforts would be futile so they relented and stepped outside to the porch. When the door banged closed behind them, they jumped- their hearts skipping a beat. They didn't say anything. And neither did the villagers waiting on the porch.

The villagers gave Athos encouraging glances while some shared hopeful gestures with Porthos. But for the most part they left them alone to sit on the edge of the porch. The body language of the two strangers was clear enough, they did not need to speak their thoughts- especially the one called Porthos.

It was easy to tell that looking at Porthos was like looking at an incomplete entity- a part of the whole. Appetite, spirit and reason: the three things that comprised the mortal soul. When one was missing, the others couldn't function properly.

And without Aramis, neither could Porthos.

The silence that ensued afterwards was severe; like the quiet before the storm. The not knowing was killing them. And Athos finally decided he couldn't take the silence any longer.

"I failed him," he murmured, staring at the floorboards between his feet. "I promised I'd get him out of there, and I failed him…I broke a promise."

"He isn't a prisoner anymore," replied Porthos, turning caring eyes toward his friend. "You did get him out of there. And yourself."

"No. I didn't," stated Athos. "I failed him. It was you and d'Artagnan who got him out. But I promised Aramis I would... "

"And how do you think we found you?" came the deep voice beside them.

So deep in his own revulsion, Athos had almost forgotten Porthos was there. "I failed him, Porthos," repeated Athos, dropping his head. "If you hadn't come along, Aramis would be dead. I wasn't able to get him out of there. What kind of friend am I? I'm sorry, Aramis."

"Athos," persisted Porthos. "How do you think we found you?" Athos' only answer was silence, so Porthos pressed on. "We found you because you didn’t fail Aramis. You stayed with him. Amongst all that chaos and hell, I saw you because you were the only one trying to help someone. Everyone else was fending for themselves. But you were carrying Aramis. That true testament captured my attention." Porthos paused. "And that makes me proud to call you all my brothers."

The words were true, but they didn't help Athos feel any better. "I feel callous," stated Athos. "I understand what you're saying. But now that I have a chance to truly realize what was going on, I feel so cold inside. I never gave it much thought when we were prisoners, but I turned a blind eye on the reality of this country’s situation. "

"What do you mean?"

Athos covered his face in his hands. "I was so preoccupied with how I was going to save Aramis, and myself in the progress," he rushed to add. "That I was nearly oblivious to the plight of these people. How can I be so unsympathetic towards others? I mean, I actually think I made jokes."

Porthos thinned his lips. "We make jokes in order to cope," he said. "Sometimes we have to. And as I see it, you never turned a blind eye on anyone. You or Aramis."

Athos shook his head. "You weren't there, Porthos."

"No, I wasn't," replied Porthos. "But tell me this, why didn't you and Aramis escape on your own? The two of you could have found a way out, or did you not really consider it?"

"We tried not to consider it," stated Athos, slightly ashamed. "If we had of left, the other prisoners would have been slaughtered for our punishment. I wouldn't have been able to live with myself."

Porthos smiled gently. "There's your answer, Athos. Don't sell yourself short, you're a good man."

Athos sighed and reached for his belt buckle, the one Aramis had given him, the one he used to gain inner strength. But it wasn't there. He remembered removing it in the cavern to light the torches. He had forgotten to retrieve it. A hand gripped his heart, tightening the muscle. But it wasn't necessarily a sad pain for he had forgone his talisman to save others- to keep them warm. Athos had lost a great thing, but in return had gained a great feeling.

He shared a glance with Porthos. "And Aramis?" he asked. "He's going to be all right?"

"Only time will tell."

"He is asking to see the both of you," came d'Artagnan's voice behind them.

Caught off guard, Athos and Porthos turned to look at the Gascon quizzically then rose to their feet.

"He is awake,” continued d’Artagnan. "If vaguely."

Athos and Porthos walked to the front door where Athos entered first. D'Artagnan remained on the porch, wanting to let them have some time alone.

Aramis looked peaceful, like someone taking a long nap after a hard day. His head was resting on a clean white pillow with one hand lying beside his face, the other arm stretched out along side him. He was asleep again, and he would have even looked normal if not for the wounds on his back.

Athos and Porthos crept across the wooden floor quietly, not wanting to disturb him. And the doctor, fixing bandages across the room, had issued a hushed warning to keep the noise to a minimum. Athos and Porthos abided, tentatively pulling up two chairs to the side of the cot.

"How is he?" asked Porthos, twisting in his seat to look at the doctor over his shoulder.

"He has suffered a great deal. But in my humble opinion, I believe he'll be right as rain," replied the doctor with a wink. "But it's going to take a lot of rest, and a lot of support. And I'm afraid there is only so much I can do about the scars- given the time lapse between infliction and definitive treatment. He will have to live with those. Most likely for the rest of his life."

Not wanting to irritate them, the doctor had left Aramis' back exposed. The blanket draped on top of him came up only to his waist. Porthos and Athos stared at the scars, clean and strikingly red against the pale of Aramis' skin.

There were so many. Some were small and deep. Others stretched across the entirety of his back. It was a mosaic of lines, criss-crossing a pattern across his skin. They were obviously painful, but they would heal.

It was Aramis' inner turmoil and memories that would be harder, and more difficult, to cure. And once again, time would be the judge of that. Time would tell if Aramis would be able to get past this; add it up to another adventure completed, another experience under his belt.

Athos still had to begin his journey down that long arduous path, but he would have Aramis to travel along side him. Together they would learn to forgive, but not forget.

Forgiving would mean they would accept what had happened to them, take it as a lesson learned on how cruel the world could be. They would take what they had learned with all that dying and misfortune, and carry it with them as a legacy to the living. They would take that backward glance for those that did not survive, of places they could no longer go. And in time, when they felt safe to call it all a thing of the past, they would take one moment to embrace those departed prisoners left behind.

But forget... Never.

Athos would never forget. He would never allow this to become a mere cobweb in his mind. Instead, he would draw from it strength and courage when life became too difficult. He no longer had Aramis' gift, but he would have this. It wasn't as tangible as the buckle, but it would do. And he could live with that.

"Oh, one more thing," said the doctor, clearing his throat. He crossed the room, heading for the pile of clothes sitting on a table beside the cot. Aramis' shirt was neatly folded, his boots placed under the chair, standing side by side.

The doctor lifted the clothes and picked up a small, silver clasp. He held it up before Athos and Porthos. "I found this in Aramis’ boot," he said, turning the object around in his hand to examine it better. "I'm not sure why it was there, but I assume it was because he didn't want to loose it."

Athos' mouth dropped. The object in the doctor's hand was his belt buckle. The one he thought he had lost. The one he had buried in the cavern's floor. The one Aramis had given him.

A wave of emotion swept through Athos, making his skin flush from head to toe. His hands shook as he took the precious buckle from the doctor. He had to bite hard on his lower lip to control it from trembling.

"What is it?" asked Porthos, trying to look at the silver object being carefully held in his friend's hands. "Is that a fleur-de-lis?”

Athos grasped the buckle tightly, making a fist around it. "My goodness," he breathed, eyes fixated on his sick friend. Something dawned on him, something he had never considered before, but made perfect sense now. He hadn't been able to figure out Aramis' actions before, but now they were shockingly clear.

"What?" pushed Porthos, his eyes darting between them both.

Athos turned to him. "All this time..." he started, finding it more difficult to hold back the tears. He remembered Aramis trying to persuade him to leave him alone. He remembered Aramis telling the guards he wanted to die. Aramis had been trying to sacrifice himself, and Athos hadn't realized something till now. "All this time I thought I was taking care of him..." his voice trailed off as the words caught in his throat. "And he was actually looking after me."

"That's just the way he is," replied Porthos, nudging his friend gently with his shoulder. "Always looking out for others before himself. He's a special man."

Athos nodded, his eyes still on the resting form of Aramis. "Yes," he said quietly. "Yes, he is."

Porthos leaned forward on his chair, rested his elbows on his knees. "Do you think we tell him that enough?" he asked, furrowing his brow as he turned to Athos.

Athos thought about the question for a moment, then nodded his head. "Sure we do. He knows."

"Yeah, you're probably right," replied Porthos with smile.

Athos turned the buckle over in his hands, fingering the curves and etchings tentatively. "But I wonder..." he said thoughtfully. "Why did he take this? He must have seen me bury it, but if Aramis thought he was going to die there, why did he hide it in his boot?"

"Maybe his spirit had different plans?" suggested Porthos, crossing his arms over his chest.

"His spirit?" asked Athos.

Porthos nodded, looked at Aramis on the bed. "When the body's reached its limit and the mind has already given up, there's still a part that thrives." He paused and drew in a deep breath. Placing a hand on Athos' shoulder, he continued. "When all hope seems to be lost, the human spirit prevails. Maybe that part of Aramis took the buckle... His spirit hadn't given up yet, even though the rest of him had."

Athos drew his head back. "That's deep."

"Yeah," breathed Porthos. "But it makes sense. The history of human suffering is proof of that."

Athos smiled. "Makes you glad to be a Frenchman, doesn't it?"

Porthos nodded. "Definitely."

A soft noise from the bed caught their attention, diverting them from their self-discoveries…

“Athos...?" Aramis whispered as his eyes fluttered open.

Athos nearly jumped off his seat as he leaned forward over the bed. "Yes, my friend. It's me," he said.

"Am I dreaming?"

"No, Aramis. You're not dreaming," replied Porthos, unable to contain his jubilant grin.

"Porthos...?"

"Yes, it's me," continued Porthos. "You're safe now. Everything's gonna be all right."

Aramis closed his eyes, took in a deep breath. "Safe... Yeah...Blow 'em to bits... Athos..." he mumbled.

"I'm right here," answered Athos, grinning ear to ear.

"Thank you."

Athos furrowed his brow, turned to Porthos in confusion. "For what?" he asked, cocking his head closer to Aramis.

"For not listening to a stubborn man," Aramis replied stiffly. "For not leaving me behind."

"Just get some sleep, Aramis," Athos ordered softly, not wanting to address that topic quite yet. He would save that discussion for later.

Athos was still harbouring guilt, but right now there were more pressing matters. And he knew if he went forward with this conversation, he'd end up crying. And that was definitely not something he would be caught doing. "You just rest," he repeated, turning his head as he covertly wiped an eye.

Aramis nodded slowly, letting his eyes flick open for a brief second before closing them again. "Sleep... Yes... Guards coming..." he said, before he grew too tired to continue.

Porthos sat back in his chair, rested a hand on Athos' shoulder as he too gave Aramis some room. "He's got a rough night ahead for himself," he said, squeezing Athos' shoulder.

Athos nodded, fingered the buckle still in his hand. "Indeed." _A rough time indeed_. He drew in a deep breath and watched the rhythmic rising and falling of Aramis' back. The sign of breathing. The sign of life. Athos's security blanket. "But he's going to be okay," he said confidently.

 _"We'll ride so far, ride so hard, far away from here._  
_When we look back upon them, it will all become so clear._  
_The gates will open up for us._  
_We won't have no more fears.”_

  
_-_ Tom Cochrane, ‘ _All the King's Men’_

 

_~The End~_


End file.
